


A Song For Patroclus

by Rainbow_Femme



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I've been meaning to write this one for a while, M/M, This is going to take a while to finish so bear with me, it's gonna be cute I just know it, patrochilles - Freeform, tsoa - Freeform, we'll get through this together my friends and hopefully you'll like it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 54,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5694730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbow_Femme/pseuds/Rainbow_Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Song of Achilles, from Achilles' point of view, lined up with the chapters in the books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was born at dawn, shaming the sunrise with the radiance of his small golden body. He did not weep, nor make any sound, and the midwife worried he did not breathe until she turned him over and found him looking up at her calmly with contemplative green eyes, his small chest rising and falling with ease. He was taken from the mortal woman's arms in an instant and held to the breast of his goddess mother. She marveled at his soft skin, curled golden hair, and bright eyes. She let him wrap his little hand around her thumb as she observed this child that was now hers with a mild amusement and wonder. She could see his father in him, felt the treacherous humanity burning within him like a parasite, but she saw herself in him as well. He would be gifted like no other before him, he would be the greatest of his age or any other.

 _Yes_ , she thought to herself as she quietly pressed her grey mouth to his golden forehead.  _Greater than his father, greater than them all. It is only a matter of time._ She sent the mortals away with an errant flick of her wrist and continued to hold him, not yet allowing her loathsome husband in to gaze upon his new heir. This time is for her, he can continue to wait as long as she wishes for him to wait. She begins tracing a long pale finger over her sons soft stomach, watching him fall into his first sleep.

_It is only a matter of time._

\--

He did not remember his mother ever living within the palace walls. He had heard the story of the moment her duty to his father was finished, how she had run out of the middle of a meal, stripping herself of her royal clothing and clawing her hair loose before diving beneath the waves and out of sight. He knew of how his father had taken her, how she'd been miserable in his fathers home, his home, for her time of entrapment. When she came to him at night from the waves, silent as a mist, she would hold him close on her knees and whisper that he was the only good that had come from such an ordeal. That he must remember that he is a golden treasure born of strife and misery that his treacherous father caused against her.

Every night she came, she asked if he would come with her, and every night he would silently shake his head no against her cool shoulder. She would leave soon after, just as silently as she came, looking at him with such fresh hurt and betrayal every time he turned her down. This made their partings bitter, and left him feeling guilty for something he did not quite understand. He would sit on the sand and watch the sun rise. He always awoke in his bed, freshly cleaned of sand and salt. His father would not ask about his mothers visits, never asked after the well being of the woman he had married. He never spoke of her at all, not like his mother spoke of him. As a child, he wondered if he could not remember.

His father was a king, a once great warrior now content to take care of his lands and his people. Men would come from countries across the ocean just to meet with him and hear his stories of heroics and adventure. They wished to hear of Heracles and the golden fleece, of distant lands and the mysteries of the Amazons. Achilles was raised on stories of bravery and courage in the greatest of battles, of men who could crush boulders in their fists, or kill twenty men with a single blow. To look upon his father, he could not see him as one of these men, though he looked and looked. To him, he was the kind man who would cast the moon from the sky if it displeased his son.

He knew it was of great concern to his father as well as most people within the palace that his mother was attempting to poison his mind against his father, so he was given anything his heart could ever desire. Every wish, every thought, every whim was catered to as if it were of the greatest importance. His toys were handcrafted out of wood and ivory, and even precious iron was used to make anything he wished. He slept on the softest of beds with the warmest blankets, he was taught whatever he wished by the greatest tutors and given the run of not only lessons, but the entire palace as well. He was forbidden nowhere, could even enter meetings between his father and foreign dignitaries as long as he knocked first. He never heard a voice raised in anger against him. He was denied nothing, and he did not even know it. He did not know he was special, he simply thought this was the way of all the world, not just his own.

He was unaware of any gifts that he possessed as a young child. He did not know he was beautiful. He did not know he was swifter and more graceful than any other child. He did not know that it was customary for other children to grow ill while he grew only stronger. He did not know why his father would often parade him for guests, or have him seated on his knee when the visiting kings of rival kingdoms came with demands. He did not understand what it meant to be the child of a god. He would simply do as his father and their guests would ask, such as run laps around the small receiving room or throw the tiny spear his father had given him at targets on the other side of the garden. He did not understand the glory in these small acts, the miracle in his movements. He simply knew they made his father smile and the visiting men cheer, so he did them as often as possible.

He learned at a young age that the easiest way to make people like him is to show off these and other skills he soon acquired. They were the few things that made his mother smile.

\--

He was five when his father decided the wonder that was his son deserved a larger audience, and he took advantage of the coming games to take him to compete against boys older than himself, princes of far greater kingdoms than their own.

He watched everyone in rapture as he waited with his father, remembering every game and competition as something new he would have to learn back at home. He liked the wrestlers and the spear throwers, and the men who launched discus. He thought all of these games looked to be almost as fun as running, though the men competing did not look like they were enjoying themselves while playing. He wondered if perhaps they were not doing it correctly.

It is his group that runs first. He knows he is smaller than the other boys, and still rounder in places where they are flat and smooth. He does not notice that he is the only fair haired boy, he is still ignorant to how he is different from others. He does not feel afraid of them, their larger bodies and longer legs. He knows he will win as he always has. None have ever beaten him.

It takes less than a moment to move ahead of the others when the priest strikes the ground for them to begin. It is easy, almost not fun in how easy it. None even come close to him, nothing close to a challenge as he moves like a leaf on the wind past sea turtles, or rocks. He finishes so far ahead of the others he has time to wipe his brow and wave to the cheering crowd before the next boy is beside him.

He is taken up to meet the king of the land they were visiting and be crowned with the wreath of laurels. He sees a young boy sitting in the shadows behind the gruff king, but the sun is bright and he cannot see him well. He wonders if the boy is injured or lame to not be racing with the others. He does not have long to wonder, his father soon comes to claim him, showing him off to all those visiting. Their kingdom is small and with his father's fame dwindling with age, he must find renown elsewhere, and where else is better than his half god son, gifted with all things their people value above all else? Achilles can feel his fathers arm warm and comforting around his shoulders as he faces the crowd and waves along with his father. He can hear them screaming in delight as they applaud him, calling out his name. All just for winning a race that was not even a challenge.

His chest swells with pride. This is the first time he has been around so many people, so much adoration for him at once. Perhaps he  _is_ special as his father always tells him, destined for greatness likes his mother always whispers. Perhaps he is truly so much greater than everyone else. No other winner was given near as much praise, not even the grown men.

He looks into one of the polished golden bowls as his father is congratulated, and looks upon his equally golden reflection. He sees for the first time that he is truly beautiful, he hears for the first time that he is truly great. He feels in himself the stirrings of something that he cannot name, but he feels himself brimming with a brilliant happiness he does not want to contain. His father embraces him and he embraces him back just as tightly before they find their way to the side as another game begins below, but he cannot make himself focus on anything but his own happiness.

Behind him, he hears the king whisper "That is what a son should be." He wonders who the other boy was, if not the mans son. For how could a father say such things in front of his child? His father surely never would, and what other template does he have to measure the world by but his own experience?

He tosses the garland in the air and catches it, laughing joyously. He decides he shall always feel this way.

 


	2. Chapter 2

As they rode towards home after the games, his father on a large roan horse and Achilles on his little gold pony, he could not stop thinking about the games. He had approached one of the men while his father had been distracted and asked how his sport was done. The man had let him hold one of the smallest discs and shown him how to place his hands, what to do with his arms, and how to throw it. He lost his smile when Achilles threw it half the distance of the field, looking up to him to see if he had done it correctly. The man had looked between the disc and Achilles, mouth slightly agape, at a loss for words. The impressed man had given him a small discus to play with back home after the man had to leave, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. He liked to toss it into the air and catch it as they rode, his garland having quickly wilted and been discarded along the dusty road. His father would often look over at him and laugh, ruffling his sons hair and happily admonishing him.

"You never stop moving, my son. I do not know if I have ever seen you be still." It had been said many times by his father as well as his tutors, but always with affection. It was his movement that everyone loved, so they could never be angry. Perhaps his music tutors were, they did not like the way he was always plucking at strings while they spoke or tapping his foot to music in his head. But what could they do? He played as well as they did as a child, it was only that he did not tell anyone this that they were able to keep their jobs. 

As they traversed home he continued to play with his disc, remembering the men he had witnessed. Feats of strength and speed, skills he did not yet possess but wished to. One day he would master all those things, he would be greater than any other man at anything he wished. 

To his right, a boy a few years older than him was watching him curiously from his own horse. Achilles recognized him vaguely as one of his fathers foster sons; He had never met any of them, but he would watch them train from afar in the mornings between lessons. This one was not particularly remarkable in any way, but Achilles liked the way he watched him effortlessly toss and catch the disk. He began tossing it higher, throwing with hand and catching with another, or tossing it in front of himself then riding forward to retrieve it. The boy laughed in delight and followed his every move. When they stopped for the night the boy stayed near him and watched him continue to do more tricks. When he felt he had run out of ideas for the disk and the boy was beginning to lose interest, he set it down and picked up a few rounded stones a little smaller than his palm. Carefully, he began juggling them as he had seen a man do earlier that day outside the great arena. The boy immediately became interested again, as well as many of the others in their party. Achilles began adding more rocks, his hands a blur. He did not know why they liked it so much, it was such an easy trick, but they all oohed and ahhed and his father stood behind them all, beaming at his son.

The next day as they made it back home, Achilles asked to spend the rest of his meals with the foster boys.

\--

He blossomed surrounded by the other boys. They swarmed to him like moths to a flame, eyes wide as saucers as they watched him, first as he performed tricks and then simply anytime he spoke. Even the older boys hung on his every word, even if he was talking about nothing at all. He loved the attention, loved how it pushed him to grow greater as he grew older, their watchful eyes inspiring to never stop learning new ways to impress them. 

However, as he grew older, he began realizing that he cared for none of them. Each boy was interchangeable and meant nothing to him beyond an adoring audience for his rich talents. He knew he should feel bad about this, knew they were all trying so hard to make themselves known to him and become a true friend and confidant, but none appealed to him.

With age came wisdom, somewhat unwelcome, as he began to see that while he was loved above all others by these boys, none of it was real. They had all been princes just like him, but were now fostered sons being trained to be nothing but soldiers. Their only chance at social redemption was to become thereupon to a prince, and it just so happened that the closest prince was also a half god, which could certainly not hurt their own chances of eternal glory while beside him. They did not know him, did not care to know him. There would be plenty of time to learn about him once he had chosen one of them. For now, he was beautiful and impressive and that was all that mattered. He knew that his father wanted him to choose someone soon, urged him to find a companion.

"He will be your greatest friend, someone you shall love above all else. He will be dedicated to you in every way; an adviser in times of peace and brother in arms in time of war, never leaving your side. He will be as a part of you. Do you not want this?" He would say this as they sat alone in his fathers chambers, Achilles on his knees before his great king father. He did not have the words to express his loneliness, no way to explain that none of those boys could ever love him like that for who he was, all they cared for was how he could be of advantage to him. He could not explain to his father that while he grew into honor among men who grew to love him for his deeds and courage, he was born to glory and that was all any of these boys could ever see when they looked upon him. He could not explain that he hated them all for this. He was 8 years old and he did not know how to express the depth of a loneliness while surrounded by adoring potential friends. So he sat with his chin on his fathers knee as Peleus stroked his curls and talked on and on about the importance of such a companion, but Achilles simply would close his eyes and stop listening, focusing instead on a melody or perhaps what he might do when he left these chambers and had the warm day to himself. Of course he wanted such a companion to ease his loneliness, but he did not think he could ever find such a one. 

\--

As the years continued to go by, Achilles' loneliness faded, though not through the acquisition of friendship, but through a loss of hope that it would ever be found. He stopped hoping that one of the surrounding boys would come forth and catch his eye, and simply took delight in their wonder at his existence. If this was the only kind of love he would get from them, why not enjoy it? It was the same love he would have from his people as king, a detached kind of adoration, so why not get used to it? It was not bad, really. He had begun realizing that he truly was so very different from these boys. He still loved their voracious appetites for his little tricks, things that none of them could come close to doing themselves.

He used them as a comparison for his own magnificence, and found them all dully lacking when beside him, yet they all loved him more for it. They loved his greatness, and, without anything outside of himself to love, he loved his greatness as well. If it was the only thing that made him worthy of love, he would cling to it all and never stop improving himself so no one could ever grow bored of him.

At his mothers' behest upon his ninth birthday, he began training alone, away from the other boys. His mother would hold him tightly on their private stretch of moonlit beach and whisper that while he should always be showing the mortals how powerful he was, he was not to let them see him fight. That was his truest power and no one should ever be able to know how powerful he was, there should never be anyone but her who truly knew the depth of his power. She was the only one who ever watched him fight, black eyes glimmering as he taught himself to throw the spears farther, moved faster than any mortal man could ever dream, mastered every weapon she brought to him. She would urge him to know them all, for he would never know what he would have when someone came at him and he must always be ready.

"It must be an extension of yourself. These are not weapons, they are your own flesh, they should move as swiftly and as fluidly as the rest of you." She would drive him for hours and watched him master everything she set at his feet. He knew how it hurt her that he would not agree to live with her beneath the waves, and showing her and only her his skill in battle was one of the only things he knew of that made her truly happy. She would not speak, but he could see her puffing with pride at not only his abilities, but that she was the only one who could witness such beauty. It was something she would always hold over Peleus, knowing he could do nothing to undermine the wishes of his goddess wife.

\--

He remembered hearing about Helen. He had been with his father when his advisers asked if he would offer himself to the old king for her hand, noting that though some years had gone by he was still known as one of the great living heroes of their time and could very easily take the most beautiful woman in the world as his bride and make his kingdom happy to have a queen again. Achilles had listened to this quietly, watching his fathers impassive face. It seemed like a good deal to him, to marry someone who was the most beautiful and well loved woman their people knew, but his father shook his head.

"I am already married. My wife is not dead." This stumped Achilles as well as the advisers, but they all quietly agreed with their king. Achilles had not known his father still considered himself married. He did not say it with any kindness or love in his voice, simply stated fact that no divorce or death had separated them. He waited a long time after the interaction to ask his father why he had made such a decision, not wanting to to bring up the unhappy marriage that connected his parents until he was sure his father was in a good mood. He looked up at his father then, who was quietly reading a letter from another king studiously. 

"Why didn't you want to marry her? If she's so beautiful?"

It took a moment for his father to remember who his son would be talking of, then nodded and set down the letter.

"Beauty fades, my son. People may love you for beauty while it lasts, but to be married to a goddess inspires deference and respect, and even yes fear. When you are a leader, you will find these things to be invaluable. If your enemies as well as your allies do not feel these things for you, you shall have no power." 

Achilles nodded sagely, understanding. It was like with the boys; it was better that he demonstrate his powers so that they would know his strength and power over them, since their love was so shallow and fickle minded.

His father stood, folding the letter. "Now. Another king is sending his son here for fostering, but I must attend to business elsewhere. The boy will be here in three days time and he will be brought to you to announce himself." Achilles nodded and left for his lyre lesson, his father walking him there, a strong hand on his sons shoulder. This was not something that was out of the ordinary, he often received new boys when his father was away or too busy to be interrupted. He simply had to acknowledge them before they were taken to their sleeping barracks.

"Who should I know him as?"

His father looked to the letter again outside of the small room where his tutor was waiting. "Patroclus, son of Menoetius, the king who held your first games." Achilles nodded at that then bowed to his father before entering the room and tossing himself onto the plush couch. He plucked at his lyre while ignoring his tutor trying to tell him something he was sure he already knew and wondered mildly what this one did to be sent to his father. He let his head fall back against the couch as he played, closing his eyes. He'd learn eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

Achilles plucked angrily at his lyre, stomach grumbling. He had skipped all meals that day, avoiding the other boys. Yesterday, one had confronted him and blatantly asked why he had not chosen any of them for a companion yet, what was he waiting for? Achilles did not know how to answer him, was enraged that the boy would dare confront him like that, in front of everyone. The others had sat silently and watched, and he could see from their faces that they were startled anyone would dare ask, but they wondered the same thing themselves. He had not struck the boy, but he'd wanted to. He'd wanted to make an example of the boy, teach them all that they were not to speak to their prince like that. But he did not. He simply left his full plate and walked from the room, and had not returned to meals since then.

He looked up at a soft knock at the door of his room, seeing Phoenix there, silently gesturing to a chair to ask if he could come in, waiting for Achilles' nod before fully entering. He sat wearily on the creaking chair, letting out a contented sigh as he leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. For a few minutes, he closed his eyes and listened as his young pupil played. Achilles softened the music so his mentor would like it, relaxing despite himself into the gentle melody.

"This is one of my favorites." Phoenix mused after some time. "You wrote it not long ago, I believe?"

Achilles nodded. "Yes, I did. I remembered you liked it." He continued to play, repeating the song over when it was finished. He had never known himself to ever have a grandfather, but he felt that if he had one, he would have been much like Phoenix. Wise and quiet, contemplative. Much like his father, or was his father like Phoenix? Achilles always felt at ease during his lessons more than any other, for they never really felt like lessons. They might sit in a garden or walk along the beach while Phoenix imparted the wisdom of life through stories. He told every story their people had, of gods and heroes, and those who had paid dearly for their crimes. He made sure Achilles knew them all, knew where they had done well and where they had fallen so he would not make their mistakes.

"You must be hungry." Achilles stopped playing then and looked up at Phoenix, relieved that he was smiling as he spoke. "Why have you not been taking your meals? Do you not feel well?"

He shook his head, running his index finger over one of his strings. His music tutors all had calluses from playing, but his hands remained smooth.

"One of my fathers foster sons meant to shame me yesterday during the afternoon meal. Father says when a soldier misbehaves, you punish them all so he will be shamed by the others into not stepping from his place again. If the others are mad that I am not there and turn on him, neither he nor they will say such things again." He did not say it with malice or anger, he simply stated it as fact, as if reciting it from a book back to his teacher. It was how he was told such things were to be handled as a king to his people, what he was told was the proper response to misbehaving.

"But they are not soldiers, Achilles, they are children, as are you."

He sat back and looked up at his favored tutor. "But they will be soldiers, and I will be king. So what does it matter if I start now or later?"

The older man smiled again and sat back, looking to the ceiling.

"In the scheme of the universe? It may not matter how a young prince treats children who shall be soldiers. But in your heart? You will not be happy. Cruelty is part of ruling this is true, as is learning to control your people. But your father does not rule with cruelty, and I should think you would not want to either. Forgiveness and kindness are of greater importance for your soul. These you must hold to before you allow your anger to control you."

He stood then, placing a weathered hand on Achilles' head and ruffling his hair before leaving him. Achilles continued to play quietly, thinking of what Phoenix had said. That night, he went back to his meals with the other boys and did not mention the incident to anyone, nor did they say anything of it back to him. Things went on as they always had.

\--

He was lounging on a couch a few days later when Patroclus first came to him, Achilles plucking idly at his lyre. It was a warm day, the kind of day where he did not want to move if he did not have to. He would have to practice his fighting later out in the warm air and burning sun, but for now he wanted nothing more than to simply lie in quiet with nothing but the plinking notes of his instrument to stir the air.

It was not until he heard the soft shushing of sandled feet on marble that he let his head fall to the side to see who had come into his room. At first glance, the boy looked like any of the others who came here. Dark and small, with hair that fell a little messily around his large eyes. He still wore the tunic of a prince, but they all did when they first arrived, a way for their king fathers to show themselves off one last time, as if to say that they were wealthy enough to waste such finery on a child that would be forever lost to them. However, there was something about him that was unlike many of the others. Where they would stand straight and state their names proudly, this one stood with his shoulders hunched, making his small frame smaller. He did not look meek; he simply looked very lost and unsure of himself or his place in the world.

He yawned. He had hoped the boy would come later in the day, not so early that he would have been disturbed during his time alone.

"What's your name?" He plucked one of his strings to punctuate the question, watching the small boy. He looked as though he might squeak rather than answer, but instead he surprised Achilles by straightening slightly and clenching his jaw, meeting his eyes. This again was not pride like the other boys, but an act of almost defiance.

_Defiance from what? What do you think you are defying? You got yourself exiled, that's not my fault. You should be thankful my father agreed to house you at all._

He spoke louder this time, willing to pretend that he thought the boy simply hadn't heard him.

"What's your name?"

"Patroclus." His voice rang out clearly as he enunciated the words. Honor of the father, that was a delicious bit of irony. The boy did not seem to think it funny, but he would in time. It was common for the foster sons to jest about the families they had left behind.

He rolled fully onto his side to face this new boy, letting his eyes travel over him. He was not one he could entirely understand from a first glance, but that was not unusual. For all the boys who came with puffed chests were the ones who still seemed to be in shock of all that had happened. This one seemed to be stuck somewhere in the middle, as he were not sure what to feel of his new living situation. A lock of hair fell to his eyes and he blew it away, feeling too warm and lazy to lift a hand from his instrument to move it himself.

"My name is Achilles." The boy made the barest of acknowledgements that he had heard, both watching each other a moment before Achilles grew bored of this game. He would get to know him enough during meals, as he had with all the others. This time was for him. He yawned and stretched before rolling onto his back once again, closing his eyes. "Welcome to Phthia."

\--

He expected to see the new boy, Patroclus, at the next meal at his table but he did not. He had gone through the gifts the boys father had sent to them in gratitude, having no use for any of it but a beautiful gold tipped lyre that he claimed for himself, nodding to the waiting men that the rest could be taken to his fathers study to await his own private inspection. He quickly favored it over his own worn instrument that he'd used since he was a child, and decided he would prefer to play on this one than any of the others.

Achilles chewed his food, deep in thought. Perhaps the boy was still adjusting and needed his time. It did not really matter to Achilles, he was fine with whatever the boys did, it did not affect him whether they ate with him or not, as many did not. He continued to laugh and joke with the other boys who did sit with him, feeling that familiar spark of pride and excitement whenever they laughed at anything he'd said. He looked around the large hall as they were distracted until he found the new boy sitting far from him, looking mournfully down at his food as if it had just insulted him. The other boys did not speak to him today, probably wanting to give him his space. Some boys simply needed time, he would come around.

Achilles took another bite of his meal and chewed. Perhaps he missed home, missed his family. It must be a hard lesson to learn that one must forget everyone they have known all their lives and start over elsewhere with nothing and no one. He hopes the boy will get used to life here, though. He knows what it is like to be alone in a crowded room and he would not wish it on anyone, especially not someone he knows now.

But days and days wear on, and the other boys do not talk to him, nor does he talk to them. In fact, the others seem to ignore him just as much as he ignores them, and this surprises Achilles. Why would he be choosing to be so alone when he could choose to be with them? It would be easy enough for him to simply walk over and sit himself at their table, he must know Achilles would not send him away. Or he could speak with one of the many others, there being so many that there had to be someone who fit his more quiet and subdued demeanor. But no, every day he comes in and sits at the same abandoned table, looking at nothing and eating mechanically, seeming to be thinking of nothing at all.

One day he looks to whichever boy is beside him and gestures to the lonely Patroclus. 

"Why does no one talk to him?"

The other boy shrugged, tearing off a large piece of bread, dragging it through the remains of his meal and mangling it in his hands as he spoke.

"He doesn't want to talk to us, we don't talk to him. He just likes sitting around I guess, doesn't really do much." He popped the bread into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it loudly, then taking a long drink.

"But why?" Achilles pressed him, though he knows it is unlike him to be so invested in the lives of one of the boys. But he cannot help it, this one is acting very strangely and he does not like it when he cannot understand something.

"Some of us think he took a hit to the head and it made him dumb, and that's why his father got rid of him. Maybe he pretended he died or something so no one would know he had an imbecile for a son. Made way for a new heir to take over without having to pass anything to this one." The boy drank again while thumbing in the direction of the still mournfully blank Patroclus, putting bread to his mouth and chewing as if he did not even know he was doing it, his eyes fixed on some spot eternally far from himself that he could not reach.

The boy continued eating but Achilles was not satisfied with this answer. Patroclus was not dumb, he had seen that the day they met. He was resigned, yes, quiet yes, but he had seen intelligence spark in those eyes when he had asked for his name, he had seen thought in that shaggy head. He had watched the dark eyes size him up, watched emotions flashing within them. No, there was intelligence there, he would not be doing these things on accident. He was purposely isolating himself from everyone else for a reason Achilles did yet not understand.

But he was going to find out the answer.


	4. Chapter 4

Achilles had always circulated among the various tables in the dining hall as usual, eating at different tables, encouraging different boys to eat with him, refreshing new tricks and replaying old ones that had not seen yet. Only now, he found himself often moving towards the table where the lonely boy sat, his curiosity growing as the days wore on and the smaller boy remained an utter mystery to him. Finally, he decided to sit only one table away from this boy, his usual crowd followed but he didn't pay them any mind. He ate as he usually did but looked up at the boy through his eyelashes, watching as much as he could through his periphery to see if the boy looked like he might be tempted to join. If he could just look a little interested, Achilles could invite him over and help him make friends. Once that had happened, he was sure he'd be free of the strange sensations he felt regarding the silent Patroclus.

He scuffed his feet against the smooth flint stone floor rhythmically and looked back down as he ate, the boy not seeming to react at all to their talk and laughter. He turned to look at one boy and continued to watch Patroclus through the edge of his vision, and found Patroclus was watching him, his eyes filled with such venom and hatred that Achilles almost flinched, turning to look at him fully, letting their eyes meet. Patroclus did flinch and his eyes widened as he was caught. He quickly looked away and so did Achilles, a bit shaken. He knew they had not gotten off to a good start, but he couldn't believe Patroclus hated him! Anger flashed inside him as he turned more away from Patroclus, dragging his nails along the wood of the bench he sat on. He had spent all this time worrying about him and this was what the boy felt in return? Well if he thought that look would rid himself of Achilles, he was in for a rude awakening.

Achilles always made sure he sat near Patroclus, waiting to meet each of his glares with a look of his own. It wasn't that he cared what the boy thought, no he was sure it certainly wasn't that, he simply wanted to make sure the boy knew he was neither as sneaky nor as clever with his vitriol as he thought. Each dinner Achilles waited, talking as he often did but always waiting for that familiar prickle at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched and would turn to meet the startled eyes of Patroclus yet again. 

For some reason, the boy never stopped looking. Achilles had thought after two or three times he might move tables, avoid Achilles altogether, stop looking. But he stayed at his place, always watching. The malice seemed to be seeping out of both of them though as days turned to weeks, and it became almost a game to him. He would try to catch him as quick as he could, or move further away and catch him from across the room. He had no idea why he felt this way, especially since the boy had not said more than one word to him in all the time that he had been there. Patroclus seemed as drawn to their game as he was, never seeming to get used to being caught by Achilles, always jumping and looking away immediately. But after it had been four weeks that Patroclus had been there (Achilles did not know how he remembered this), he decided to change the game.

 Getting to the dining hall early, he sat down at Patroclus' table, watching it fill with the other boys, waiting for him to arrive, unable to predict what his reaction might be. When Patroclus did enter, he watched his face carefully while speaking with another boy whose name he could not remember, barely paying attention to what they were talking about. Something about the spring races and a bird on the beach. He watched the internal turmoil, waited to see if he would leave or stay. He tried to hide his smile when he saw Patroclus' jaw clench and he walked over to them determinedly, sitting at a seat Achilles had purposely left open.

He did not speak with anyone, simply sat and acted as if nothing had changed and he was eating alone just as usual, so Achilles acted the same way, as if he were not there, but was excruciatingly aware of his presence. It was hard for Achilles to ignore the one person he had met who did not like him. The dislike intrigued him, made him so extremely curious about the boy who acted so differently from the others. He had not had a conversation once with him, but he seemed to be one of the most honest people Achilles had met, and he valued nothing more in another person than honesty, which he believed was the driving force behind his hatred for the other boys. Their love was a lie, Patroclus' distaste was truth.

When their meal had ended Patroclus was going to leave and for some reason, Achilles didn't want him to. He quickly looked around for some sort of distraction, trying to think of some way to get everyone's attention. An idea popped into his mind and he grabbed for a few large ripe figs from a bowl on their table and began casually juggling them as if the mood to juggle had simply taken him for no reason. Luckily, people rarely questioned the things he did and just sat back and watched instead.

The other boys laughed and cheered, calling for more and more figs. He made them go faster and faster, blurring before his eyes, adding another, and then another. Once he felt he had all the ones he was going to use, he looked to Patroclus, who was watching him silently with those wide brown eyes. There was no malice in those eyes, nor fake adoration. He looked mesmerized and intrigued, watching the fruits flying before him. 

He waited for Patroclus to meet his eyes.

"Catch." He softly tossed a fig towards the silent boy. He extended his cupped hands slightly and caught the fruit, his face painted with surprise, his mouth slightly open but still silent. The boys around them cheered over the new addition to the trick but Achilles didn't really notice, he was used to their cheering. He finished the trick, catching the rest and returning them to the bowl except for the last, taking a bite of his favorite fruit, feeling the soft flesh yield under his teeth and reveal the delicious insides. He lifted his eyes to see Patroclus doing the same thing thoughtfully.

He stood then and waved to the boys who all called out their goodbyes to him as he left, continuing to eat happily and heading to some quiet time on his own to think on the day's events.

\--

The next day his father returned, and Achilles learned what Patroclus had done. He had not been in the room when his father spoke to the boy out of deference for their privacy, but he stood not far, able to hear everything. He had thought perhaps he had stolen, or angered his father with insolence, or perhaps caused an incident with another king or noble as many of his father's foster sons had. He felt as if he were frozen t the spot when his father spoke.

"You are here because you killed a boy. You understand this?"

_Killed a boy, he had killed someone. Those small hands had taken a life, those large, round eyes watched it happen. How could such a thing be possible? That is not the boy I know._

But Patroclus responded that it was true what he'd done and Achilles had no choice but to believe it. Patroclus had killed someone, but he could see he regretted it. There were dark circles under his eyes, his head was bowed and his shoulders hunched, Achilles could see how it weighed on him. He waited for Patroclus to be dismissed before entering.

"Is it true? He killed someone?" He did not understand why he sounded so breathless. His father nodded.

"Yes, the son of a nobleman in their country. They demanded death or exile and his father chose exile."

"How?" He did not know why he wanted to know, he did not even know if his father would know, but his curiosity about this strange boy was always stronger than it should be and he could do nothing to fight it.

"He pushed the boy who then fell down an embankment, killing him. None else is known." Peleus turned to a letter he had been given by one of the dignitaries and Achilles took is as a sign that he was to go now. He didn't know what else he might say anyway.

When he left he saw a boy walking down the hall away from him and thought none of it, until it came to their next meal and everyone else knew what Patroclus had done.

"He murdered another boy, did you hear?"

"I heard it was over a princess they both wished to marry."

"No, I heard he did it just because he wanted to. He might do it to any of us if we're not careful."

"I heard after he'd done it, he drank the blood out of the boys lifeless body, there wasn't a drop left in him."

They all whispered boldly amongst themselves, but turned fearful any time the source of their rumors came near, not wanting to catch any of the darkness around the boy or inspire him to make them his next kill. Achilles watched him more openly now, as the boy looked at nothing but his food, their game over. Achilles didn't know how to help, but he felt compelled to do something.

His opportunity came when he heard the angry drill master hollering to his father that Patroclus had not been going to his required lessons. He threatened to whip the boy within an inch of his short life when he got his hands on him, so Achilles decided that he would find him first.

He asked some of the foster sons where to look for the smaller boy and many said he might be hiding. A few pointed in the direction of the storeroom, saying he'd been hiding out in there. It made sense to Achilles, the boy wanting to hide somewhere quiet where he could avoid everyone else. He waited for the drills to start again and went to the room, happy to see the boys had been right.

Patroclus was sitting on the floor, curled with his knees to his chest, lost in his own thoughts, not even noticing that Achilles was there.

"I heard you were here." The boy jumped at his voice, blinking a few times against the poor light to see him. "I've been looking for you. You have not been going to the morning drills."

He looked ashamed of himself for a moment, then angry. Achilles had grown used to Patroclus being angry at him, it did not sting as it used to. 

"How do you know? You aren't there." He held his knees tighter, eyes lowered in accusation at Achilles, but he did not react. He did not want to rise to Patroclus' anger, he wanted to help him.

"The master noticed, and spoke to my father." He tried to make his voice soft and patient.

"And he sent you." Patroclus sounded so angry, so betrayed by what he thought was Achilles running errands on him. Why did he think that he got to be angry at Achilles? Dammit, what had he ever done to deserve this boy hating him? All he had done was try and help him!

"No, I came on my own." He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth and trying to keep his anger cooled. "I overheard them speaking. I have come to see if you are ill." He hoped the boy would say that he was in any way. A sore stomach, a pain in his head, anything he could bring back to his father so Patroclus would not be whipped.

But Patroclus did not answer. Achilles watched him, waiting. He knew he was not dense, he had to understand what this truancy would mean for him.

"My father is considering punishment." He tried to help him along to come to the same conclusion that he had to help himself here. But he stayed still silent. "You are not ill." Again he tried to lead him, but Patroclus just shook his head dully.

"No." He looked as if he had given up. On what, Achilles did not know, but he looked so limp and defeated.

"Then that will not serve as your excuse."

"What?" This snapped his attention, made him look fully up at Achilles again, curios.

"Your excuse for where you have been. So you will not be punished. What will you say?" 

"I don't know."

Achilles wanted to sigh, this boy made it so hard to help him.

"You must say  _something_."

The anger sparked in Patroclus again and Achilles had no idea what he'd said this time that was so upsetting. He did not understand this boy at all.

"You are the prince."

This again stumped Achilles. What was _that_ supposed to mean? "So?" He tilted his head to the side, his hair falling a little in his eyes but he he did not think to swipe it away.

"So speak with your father, and say I was with you." He said it as if it were obvious. "He will excuse it." 

Achilles frowned. How could he ask him to lie to his father? His father had done nothing to deserve such disrespect from his only son.

"I do not like to lie."

"Then take me with you to your lessons," he said. "So it won't be a lie."

Well, this was much better. Patroclus had at least come up with not only an idea, but a good idea that he could use to save him. But would it be a lie? His father would think he meant he had been doing it all along, but it would only be for today...

Well, he could make it work so that it was not a lie. What was important was helping Patroclus not be whipped.

"Come." He had a lesson soon, he could take him to play music with him. 

"Where?" Patroclus looked nervous still, not yet moving from his place.

"To my lyre lesson. So, as you say, it will not be a lie. After, we will speak with my father."

"Now?"

Achilles shrugged. "Yes. Why not?" 

The boy regarded him a moment and Achilles thought he might refuse, but after a moment of watching him he stood and quietly followed Achilles to his lesson.

\--

It was a silent walk to his lyre lesson, Achilles unsure what to say. This boy had never seemed very interested with what he had to say, so he wasn't sure now would be a good time to try idle chit chat. And besides, it wasn't like Patroclus was offering any conversation starters himself, so perhaps he still preferred silence between them.

Achilles walked into the room for his lesson, gesturing Patroclus to one of the chairs where he sat, looking a little nervous, once again cooling Achilles' annoyance. He had to remember that he was the prince and Patroclus was a lonely exile in an unfamiliar place. He would never know how hard such a thing might be to go through, and Patroclus was handling it as best he could.

Achilles opened a chest and pulled out his old lyre, holding it out to Patroclus. He hoped the worn instrument he had loved so much might bring the boy some luck, as he surely needed it. But Patroclus simply looked apprehensively at it, not reaching out a hand to take it.

"I don't play," he said, his voice soft and almost ashamed. Achilles frowned at this, confused. How could he have been brought up without music?

"Never?"

"My father did not like music."

Achilles could not fathom a life that was not filled with music. How dull it must have been in Patroclus' home. 

"So? Your father is not here." Patroclus continued to look at him a moment then took the lyre, rubbing his thumb along the worn wood, his fingers along the tight strings. Achilles was glad he liked it.

Achilles took his new golden lyre and sat beside Patroclus, plucking at it. He wondered why Patroclus' father had it, if he disliked music so. Perhaps it was simply for decoration. He was glad that it was with him now, where he could show it the proper attention it deserved. To own an instrument but not play it seemed to be a crime to him. He tuned it slightly, always wanting it to be at its best for the greatest sound. Such an instrument deserved such treatment.

"It is beautiful." Patroclus' voice sounded strange; very soft and breathless. He hoped the boy was not still so nervous about Achilles getting him in trouble.

"My father gave it to me." He spoke the words flippantly, as it had not been a true gift but rather the freedom to choose it as a gift. He continued to stroke the strings quietly. Usually his father would gift him a piece of whatever payment they had been given for a boy, except in cases like that of Patroclus where Achilles was the one to receive the gifts, in which case he chose it himself. It was the only gift he had ever chosen for himself that he cared for. Usually, what mattered more to him was the time his father took from his day to choose a gift he knew his son would like. But when he had shown this to his father upon his return, he'd smiled so kindly and professed that if he had been the one to receive it, he would have known at once that it was the perfect gift for his son.

Perhaps, he thought, Patroclus wished to hold it and was too shy to ask.

"You can hold it if you like."

"No." The word was short and clipped, his voice almost cracking. Achilles turned to him, concerned. Did Patroclus know this instrument more than he thought? He was about to ask when his tutor breezed into the room to begin the lesson. It took him a moment to notice there was an extra boy.

"Who is this?"

Achilles prickled at the harshness in his voice, as if Patroclus were some street urchin who had wandered in and not a former prince and chosen foster son of his esteemed father.

"This is Patroclus," he stated simply. "He does not play, but he will learn." He owed no more explanation than this. The mans eyes moved to Patroclus and found him to be holding what, up until a month ago, had been the treasured instrument of the crown prince.

"Not on that instrument." He moved forward to take it and Achilles saw his new friend flinch back at the movement, his eyes frightened, his small hands tightening defensively on the instrument and anger flared within him. He reached out and grabbed his tutors wrist, looking at him coolly.

"Yes, on that instrument if he likes." He left no room for arguments. Patroclus would play whatever he wished and that was final.

He could see that his tutor was angry, as he often was at Achilles, but what could he do? Should he try to defy the prince and take the instrument away he would be out of a job in an instant. It was only by Achilles' grace that he still had a job, as Achilles had far surpassed him long ago in skill. Their lessons were now simply for Achilles to have a reason to play every day for someone besides himself, his father, and Phoenix, who were often to busy to have time to pay much attention.

His tutor sat back stiffly. "Begin."

Achilles bent over his instrument and began to play, allowing the familiar tide of the music to sweep his mind away somewhere else, far away from everything else. He forgot that he played for a new audience, forgot that he had not played for another boy in such a way before. His tricks had been for the foster boys, but his music had always been for a very few people beyond himself. He felt at peace as the familiar notes moved through the air, tickling over his skin and soothing his soul, quieting all thoughts and worries. He felt his hair fall before his eyes but he paid it no mind, so locked into his music that he could not think of anything but the ensuing notes and melodies flowing from his fingers and into the very air around them.

Once he had finished he sat back and tucked the loose strands back into place, turning to Patroclus who was staring at him in wonder, as if he had just performed a miracle.

"Now you," he prompted, wanting his friend to have his turn, but Patroclus simply shook his head, swallowing thickly.

"You play." And so Achilles did, this time singing softly as well, faint words he had written for this particular song. A song of adventure, of sadness, and of hope. He let his head fall back as he became filled with the lightness of the music, so filled he thought he might lift from the ground and float away on the music within him, spilling from him, filling the air around him with life. Sometimes he felt he could see the music if he tried, could see it in the air, taste it on his tongue. Music had never been simply about one sense to him but all of them, engaging every part of himself in its beauty.

When he finally stopped, he found Patroclus leaning forward, those eyes filled with something Achilles could not possibly begin to name, but he knew it made him feel strange inside. This was not the pleasant smiles of his father and Phoenix, the cool pride of his mother, or the wild ecstasy of the foster boys. This was softer and deeper and utterly unnameable. He quickly took their instruments and put them away, his fingers feeling as if they were filled with electricity at the tips as they never had when he had played for anyone else before. He quietly bid farewell to the tutor who left without another word or instruction. 

Softly Achilles turned so he could just see Patroclus from the corner of his eye. The boy was still leaning forward, watching him still with that same fascination and wonder that made Achilles feel so strange that he could not fully face him yet. 

"We will go see my father now."


	5. Chapter 5

Achilles lead Patroclus to his fathers' public chambers, entering through the large bronze doors slowly so they wouldn't make too much noise. The fires were lit and the room was filled with smoke and sparks twirling through the air before dying on the cool marble floor. He closed the doors behind them, looking to Patroclus and holding up a hand.

"Wait here."

Achilles walked deeper into the room and knelt before his father. He knew he was unannounced, he knew he was unexpected, but he wanted to do this quickly before Patroclus changed his mind about hating him again.

"Father, I come to ask your pardon." He watched his father raise an eyebrow, confused as to what his son could have possibly done to need a pardon before it had even reached noon.

"Oh? Speak then." Achilles could see that his father was annoyed but he tried to ignore it and feign ignorance. He bowed his head in respect before speaking, something that he knew his father liked.

"I have taken Patroclus from his drills. "

"Who?"

"Menoitiades." Achilles liked Patroclus' first name better. 

"Ah." His father nodded and looked past Achilles to where he knew Patroclus stood, small and unassuming, probably still very scared. "Yes, the boy the arms-master wants to whip."

"Yes. But it is not his fault. I forgot to say I wished him for a therapon." He knew this would surely save Patroclus, that his father would not be able to focus on anything but his son finally choosing a companion. And as he thought, his fathers eyes went to his son's face in surprise, then back to Patroclus, his eyes narrowing.

"Come here, Patroclus."

He could hear Patroclus' soft shuffling walk before he knelt just behind Achilles, his own head bowing just as Achilles' had. His father's eyes did not leave them, moving between his son and the inexplicable boy he had chosen for eternal companion.

"For many years now, Achilles," his father said, using his formal kingly voice and not the voice for when they were alone. "I have urged companions on you and you have turned them away. Why this boy?"

Achilles could feel Patroclus watching him now as well. "He is surprising." It was the only way he could describe Patroclus, the way he always seemed to do the last thing Achilles expected, that he knew Patroclus would not lie to him with affection the way the other boys did, that he could never figure out exactly what Patroclus meant when he spoke or looked at him. Should Patroclus ever choose to like him he would know that he had earned it. Should he never like him, he would know it was always an honest dislike. Either way, he needed someone he could trust above all else as a companion, and this boy was the only one who could do this thing. He looked up to meet his fathers eyes.

"Surprising," he mused, looking into his sons eyes, searching for some further reasoning.

"Yes." He did not explain further, he knew he needed to keep this for himself. His father needed to start being able to simply trust his judgement as prince.

His father softened slightly but continued to look skeptical. "The boy is an exile with a stain upon him. He will add no luster to your reputation."

Achilles shrugged. "I do not need him to." For once, he just wanted someone to be with him as a person and friend, not another person to add to his already bloated honor. His father nodded at this.

"Yet other boys will be envious that you have chosen such a one. What will you tell them?"

"I will tell them nothing. It is not for them to say what I will do." Patroclus may not look like much, but he had accomplished something all of them had failed at. They had no right to question what he did or did not do.

His father watched him closely, and then Achilles saw the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, his eyes lighting up in familiar amusement at his son, and Achilles knew he had won and Patroclus would not be harmed.

"Stand up, both of you." And they both stood. "I pronounce your sentence. Achilles, you will give your apology to Amphidamas, and Patroclus will give his as well."

"Yes, Father."

"That is all." His father turned back to his annoyed looking counselor and Achilles lead Patroclus quickly out. The enormity of what he had done was now reaching him as the fear of Patroclus being punished had ebbed.  He had chosen this boy to be by his side forever and all he knew firmly about him was that Patroclus hated him sometimes and had killed a boy. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he were trapped and desperately needed to be alone.

"I will see you at dinner," he said shortly, trying not to sound harsh but needing to run from these enclosing walls.

"Where are you going?"

Achilles stopped, always surprised by Patroclus. The other boys would have bowed to him and said their goodbyes, but Patroclus was not afraid to ask if he was curious about anything.

"Drills."

"Alone?"

"Yes, no one sees me fight." He said it thousands of times to nearly every boy in this home.

"Why?"

He turned to Patroclus then, wondering if perhaps he should let him come. He would have to see it sooner or later anyway. Could he let him see now? No, not yet. He would need to speak to his mother about this first.

"My mother has forbidden it. Because of the prophecy."

"What prophecy?"

"That I will be the best warrior of my generation."

"When was the prophecy given?" Patroclus was watching him curiously again and Achilles felt his need to flee slowly draining as they spoke.

"When I was born. Just before. Eleithyia came and told it to my mother." His mother had been considering killing him and not giving his father an heir, so the goddess of childbirth came to her and told her that he must live for he was to be the greatest warrior of all the world. His mother had told him this once so that he would know how important this prophecy was, how important he was that the gods had done all they could so that he would live. She did not seem to understand how it hurt to hear.

"Is this known?"

"Some know of it, and some do not. But that is why I go alone." He continued to watch Patroclus, curious about what he may say next.

"Then I will see you at dinner." And they both left in opposite directions.

\--

He trained harder than he usually did, letting himself work into a sweat before tossing down his weapons, his hands trembling slightly. It was rare that he ever be out of breath but he liked the feeling, focused on that and not all the fear of the thing he had just done. He had splintered a spear with the strength of his thrust, destroyed many of the targets irreparably. The arms-master would be angry about that too, but Achilles didn't care. Wiping his face, he knew he could not put it off any longer, that he would have to go to his mother and tell her of his decision. She would learn soon whether he told her or not, but she would be furious if he did not tell her himself.

Sitting down on the beach, he let his feet dig into the wet sand, watched the water pool around his ankles before receding, then washing towards him again. By the third time, his mother stood before him, tall and burning white as alabaster.

"What is wrong, my son?" He did not often come to her during the day, their meetings were always during the night.

"I have chosen my therapon."

Her brows furrowed. "Already? You are but a child."

"My father for years has urged me to choose a boy among my peers-"

"You have no peers, Achilles. None are like you. They are simply mortal boys who have done nothing worthy of glory. Why not wait and choose from true heroes?"

"He is not like the other boys here, I believe he may be great beside me."

"Any could become great by your side, that is no reason to choose someone. You should tell this boy you have changed your mind. Wait for someone who has earned their own glory and can rightfully stand beside you. Another child of a god, perhaps. You may become gods together, and reign eternal side by side."

He shook his head, hugging his knees. "I have chosen him." He hated defying her, hated the way she looked at him, the betrayal and pain that he caused by not being able to heed her requests. It did not matter how many times he had told her no in his life, every time was just as hard. He knew her criticisms came from a place of love and concern, but she understood nothing of mortal life. 

"Alright." Her voice was clipped. "Do not listen to me. I am simply your mother, an ageless being who has seen the rise and fall of countless heroes before you. I am sure you and your father know more about these things than I do."

He moved to say more, explain that this was not done to hurt her, but she was already gone. He put his face into his knees and stayed in that spot for a very long time, not yet ready to see anyone else for a while.

\--

He sat again at Patroclus' table for dinner, figuring Patroclus would still need reassurance that he wanted him around, if Patroclus even wanted Achilles around. He could not say that he knew for certain that Patroclus did not still hate him. But when Patroclus sat down, he looked at Achilles guiltily then back down at his food. Achilles hoped Patroclus would one day feel safe enough around him to not always be so scared when they were not arguing over something. He waited and watched him, curious to see if he might talk to him now that they were tied together, but he stayed silent.

"Patroclus." He spoke loudly over the other boys, all nearby quieting as he spoke the name of the outcast. Now would be the time that they knew he had chosen, now he would tell them all that Patroclus was not to be shamed, but embraced as part of their prince. "Tonight you're to sleep in my room."

"All right," he managed, looking surprised. Achilles continued to eat mildly, wanting this to seem casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he would have chosen Patroclus.

"A servant will bring your things." They finished their meals quietly, the other boys stunned. No one had ever thought he would pick Patroclus of all people. Perhaps the strongest or the fastest, or the most beautiful, but not the boy who seemed to be none of those things. They both finished their meals then left, the eyes and open mouths following them in stunned silence. No cheerful goodbye's were called.

Achilles had never brought another boy to his room before, and it felt a little strange. A pallet for Patroclus to sleep on had already been relocated to what was now their room. He was glad that the pallet had a nice view of outside, where he could see the moon and the water if he sat up and looked. Maybe Patroclus would like that. He felt nervous now, as they stood together. He never had to try and please someone, he was struggling to find ways to make Patroclus like him.

He gestured to the pallet to start the conversation. "That is for you."

"Oh," was his only reply.

"Are you tired?"

"No."

He nodded, glad Patroclus was not looking for an excuse to not be around him at least. "Me neither." There was a long moment of awkward silence. "Do you want to help me juggle?"

"I don't know how." Patroclus again looked nervous about not knowing something he had a perfectly good excuse not to know. 

"You don't have to know. I'll show you." He hoped that Patroclus would like this game like the one before with the figs. He desperately wanted this boy to like him.

"All right."

"How many can you hold?"

"I don't know."

"Hold out your hand." He waited for Patroclus to do so and laid his hand against it, noticing that they were about the same even if Patroclus was smaller than him. Perhaps he would grow tall later then. "About the same. It will be better to start with two, then. Take these." He showed Patroclus where to grab them from, grabbing six himself and balancing their weight in his hands.

"When I say, throw one to me." He hoped starting out like this might make it easier for him, they could work up to harder stuff later. He began juggling, made sure to get a good rhythm, then said, "Now." Patroclus tossed the ball and Achilles began juggling it as well. "Again." And Patroclus tossed again, Achilles catching it easily. "You do that well."

Patroclus looked surprised at this, like he was waiting for Achilles to say it was just a joke. 

"Catch." He tossed one back and Patroclus caught it. They went on like this for a while, the sun finding its way below the horizon and the moon rising high in the sky before they came to an end. Both were giddy and smiling when Achilles caught all of the little leather balls, yawning.

"It's late," Achilles declared, rubbing at his eyes and putting the balls away, getting ready for bed. It felt strange to do such things with an audience. He was extremely aware of Patroclus' eyes as he washed his face, freed his hair from its leather restraint, and making his way to his bed, trying not to look at the wide eyed boy watching him. 

He cupped his hand around the torch, blowing it out. "Good night."

He waited in the dark before he heard the gentle "Good night," in return.

\--

Achilles found his days passing happily now that Patroclus was with him, now that he was no longer alone. At first, Patroclus would often stop to look into his old room, would stand uneasily in the doorway to their room until he was sure Achilles would not throw him out. But soon, to Achilles' delight, he came immediately to their room during free time to be with him. He would enter the room and greet Achilles before plopping onto his own bed and yawning, as if they had lived together all their lives. 

He knew Patroclus had nightmares, could hear him waking at night gasping in fear and thrashing on his pallet, but he pretended to be asleep, turning his face away so Patroclus would not see his open eyes, waiting to see if he should need him. He told himself that he would help if they got worse, but over time he heard them lessen and then stop completely, so he let it be Patroclus' secret. 

He soon learned that Patroclus was not as reserved as he had thought he was. Beneath the nervous exterior and defensive anger was a soft and interesting boy just looking for happiness. He liked playing Achilles' games even if he did not do them well. He seemed to love the juggling games they played, or tossing the old disc even if he did not always catch it. When he smiled, he seemed to smile with his entire body, emanating happiness from his entire being. The smiles were so rare at first that Achilles began cherishing each one as a gift, even when they became easier and more frequent. He had never worked as hard to please someone as he did to please this boy.

Every night he would tell Patroclus about his day. His lesson with Phoenix, how training went, where he went to walk or swim while he was alone before he found Patroclus again. Soon, Patroclus began adding his own stories as well. Stories of skipping stones with his mother, of the toy horse he had left behind with the moveable legs that could walk and stomp. The lyre.

"The lyre my father sent was my mothers," Patroclus said once, his voice soft and pensive, eyes far away into the past as he lay on his pallet. "It came in her dowry. She could not play, but she loved the music. She would have liked to hear you play it, I think."

Achilles smiled at this from his own bed. "I am glad your father sent it with you."

His voice began filling the night as much as Achilles' did, telling him all about his days and his life, what he thought of the other boys or the squeak in the chairs of the music room. He liked the fish dinners they had here more than any they'd had at his old home, and they would spend hours on their sides facing one another long into the night and whispering what their ideal foods might be and how they could absolutely eat more than the other.

\--

Achilles began thinking that it might be time for Patroclus to see him train. He knew his mother forbid it, he knew his father would not like it, but this was his decision and his therapon. If Patroclus was to be by his side always, he would need to see him train.

He waited for a warm afternoon to make the offer, nervous for a reason he could not quite name.

"Why don't you come with me?" He fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, not looking directly at Patroclus. 

"All right," came the familiar response, one he knew Patroclus used when he did not know what to expect, one that meant he was nervous and not completely trusting.

Achilles lead him the long way to the training shed for his weapons, through the olive groves he loved to try and calm himself.

Once inside the old shed, Patroclus half reached for a weapon hesitantly. "Should I-?"

Achilles shook his head. "I do not fight with others." The last thing he needed was to accidentally hurt Patroclus and scare him away forever. Now that he had someone by his side all the time who he could talk to,  _really_ talk to, he did not want to lose that.

Patroclus followed him outside. "Never?" Always always with a thousand questions.

"No."

"Then how do you know that..." Patroclus gestured to him vaguely.

"That the prophecy is true? I guess I don't." He had never thought of it too much. He knew he was gifted from every other aspect of his life, he did not spend much time wondering on things he did not need to bother himself with.

And so, he began. He started with his usual drills with his spear and sword, twirling on the balls of his feet, the targets whirling around him as he struck at each with ease. Running and ducking and leaping and always striking with his spear, and then his sword. His weapons blurred before him and moved as his mother had told him they should, as if they were part of himself. 

He stopped then and turned to Patroclus, breathing a little fast from his nerves. He did not know how Patroclus might react, he never knew how Patroclus might react to anything. 

"Who trained you?" Patroclus looked at him in awe, his voice just above a whisper. 

"My father, a little." Truthfully his father had just shown him the drills to do, but he did not want to seem to be bragging. And Patroclus looked scared enough already.

"No one else?" 

"No."

Patroclus stepped forward then. "Fight me." 

He tried to stop the laugh in his throat at such absurdity. Had he not just watched him? "No. Of course not."

"Fight me," he said again, eyes on Achilles' face, burning with determination. Why was Patroclus doing this? Why was he making things complicated? 

"I don't want to." He was scared now. He knew he should have listened, should not have shown Patroclus. He had ruined everything now, it was all spoiled.

"I dare you."

"You don't have any weapons." His voice sounded desperate and strained to his ears.

"I'll get them."

He laid his weapons on the ground, looking at Patroclus firmly, using his prince's voice now. "I will not. Do not ask me again."

"I will ask you again. You cannot forbid me." He stepped towards Achilles again defiantly. Patroclus looked angry. Achilles felt angry. Why was he doing this?

Achilles turned and walked away from him, needing to distance himself from Patroclus and hope they can both cool down and forget this had happened, chalk it up to the madness of the moment. 

"Come back," Patroclus called, but he would not. "Come back, are you afraid?"

He laughed a little at that. "No, I am not afraid." 

"You should be." Patroclus' voice was clipped and harsh and Achilles almost flinched at the sharpness. He refused to look at him, did not want to see such anger again on the face of someone he thought could be his friend.

He thought Patroclus actually liked him.

Just then, Patroclus  _tackled_ him out of nowhere, knocking him to the ground. He twisted and grabbed at Patroclus wrists, restraining him. 

"Let me go!" Patroclus yanked his wrists to no avail.

"No." Achilles rolled then, getting on top and straddling Patroclus' stomach, holding him down.  _Is this what you wanted? You wanted me to fight you? You wanted me to scare you? Well here you go._

Patroclus was panting and looking up at him, but seeming to relax a little. "I have never seen anyone fight the way you do."

"You have not seen much."

"You know what I mean."

Achilles watched him, searching his face for meaning. Patroclus always confused him, always talked in such riddles that Achilles could not unravel. He wanted to throw up his hands in frustration. 

"Maybe. What do you mean?"

Patroclus struggled again and Achilles let go, moving away. They sat across from each other on the hard packed earth, both breathing a little fast. 

"I mean-" Patroclus kept looking at him, slowly getting his breath under control. "There is no one like you."

Achilles searched Patroclus' face, looking for something to grab hold to. "So?"

He watched the tension melt from Patroclus' face slowly, his shoulders easing. He seemed to agree that maybe it did not matter. Achilles smiled then, could not stop his wide grin as he realized Patroclus did not want to leave.

Patroclus smiled back at him, and it seemed that he had gotten the last of his anger out of his system and they could finally move on from here. Achilles knew that from now on, they truly were friends.


	6. Chapter 6

If Achilles had thought he'd known happiness before now, he was wrong. If he'd thought what he'd had with the other boys was close enough to friendship for him to live on, he'd never been more wrong. He could not imagine giving up what he'd gained with Patroclus, no longer knew how he'd lived contently before this.

Patroclus was never far from his side. Before, he had liked the quiet of his days being spent mostly alone, but now his days were filled with laughter and constant talking about everything under the sun. He could not imagine being alone again, living in that silent world again would be unbearable after having his days filled with such talk and laughter and light.

One day they might swim until their fingers pruned and they collapsed onto the warm sand in laughter, another they might lie in the shade of the olive trees, talking of all the things in the world. This, the small clams they'd unearthed on the beach with their toes; This, how soon the figs might finally ripen enough for them to sneak away with a few; This, how Achilles' fingertips now reached slightly farther than Patroclus' when they compared size. Achilles felt so strangely when they were together, so unaccustomed was he to such companionship. His mouth would run away from him for hours, or they might play a new game they created just for themselves, or they could nap in the branches of the trees and race back to dinner before they were late. Patroclus never seemed to be angry that he was not as fast or as strong as Achilles, the games were not about winning. Achilles could not care less if he won against Patroclus or not, it was the game itself that he loved, the ability to play with someone who wanted to be by his side. Achilles could look at Patroclus and know if he lost his divinity and prince-hood all at once, Patroclus would still want to be by his side. For the first time, he had earned something without the aid of the circumstances of his birth, and it was his greatest treasure.

To see Patroclus so happy as well was his greatest delight. The sad, sullen boy was no more, had been replaced by this shining beacon of joy and laughter as they talked and played. As much as Achilles could talk, Patroclus could just as much with stories of other boys, or back home, or what happened in the short times that they were apart. He loved skipping stones and the way the sun looked on leaves, loved the small birds that pecked at the bread crumbs left after meals and the flash of light from the bellies of the silver fish that fled when they entered the water.

He loved music just like he said his mother had, though he did not excel at it himself. Achilles urged his practice, but Patroclus was happier to lie on his stomach and listen to Achilles play, which he was always happy to do. He wrote more songs than ever about everything they did. This song about Patroclus as he spoke, this about Patroclus as he laughed, this about Patroclus as they juggled or swam or skipped stones. He never told him what the songs were about, he could not make the words come from his mouth past the embarrassment of admitting such a thing, even to Patroclus. But he seemed to love them either way.

\--

Patroclus had been his therapon for a year when they spoke of the boy he'd killed. They were up high in the branches of their large oak, shrouded from all prying eyes by the shield of dark leaves.

"I was playing with dice," he started, his eyes far away into the past. "He was bigger than me, he knew it was easy to get things from me. He kept trying to make me hand them over and I just got so mad! I was so tired of everyone taking advantage of me just because they could."

Achilles was speechless to hear such things. The idea of a nobleman's child bullying a prince was just unfathomable. He nodded for Patroclus to continue, that he was listening.

"So when he tried to grab them again, I pushed him. I thought he might fall back and be mad but I could run away, but he went farther than I thought. I saw his head hit the rock. I w-" He had to stop and lick his lips, hands trembling slightly. His voice was softer now. "I watched him die. I saw it in his eyes when it happened." He took a laborous breath. "I ran then. It was not very long before his family was demanding I be killed in retribution. My father sent me here instead."

Achilles waited a moment before speaking, absorbing it all. "Why did you not say that you were defending yourself?"

"I don't know."

"Or you could have lied."

Patroclus seemed surprised by this and sat back, stunned a bit, as if he had not thought of such a thing. This hurt Achilles deeply, that his friend had been so used to being mistreated that the idea of defending himself against his father had never crossed his mind. That he had been ingrained in just accepting any punishment that came to him without question. Achilles hated his father for it, hated that he had not seen the cruelty in him when they'd met briefly all those years ago.

Patroclus turned to him then. "You would not have lied."

"No," he admitted, shaking his head. But that was different. He would not have to fear his own father. 

"What would you have done?"

"I don't know. I can't imagine it. The way that boy spoke to you. No one has ever tried to take something from me." He only realized it as he said it, only then realized how little he had been denied. No one had ever taken anything away from him. How strange. 

"Never?"

"Never." He paused, trying to imagine such a situation coming to pass. "I don't know. I think I would be angry." He sat back then, closing his eyes and absorbing the warmth of the sun slipping through the leaves. He did not want to talk of such things anymore. No one would be taking anything from him, and now that they were together, no one would be taking anything from Patroclus ever again. There was no reason to worry themselves with such things anymore.

\--

Although he'd been wary at first of the child his son had chosen for companion, Peleus quickly took Patroclus under his wing as a second son with ease. He loved Patroclus for his stillness as he loved his son for his movement. He loved the careful way Patroclus observed everything without a sound, but could speak so eloquently on what he'd seen if you asked. He knew that when he spoke, Patroclus was absorbing each word with rapture, where Achilles could on occasion find his mind wandering during his fathers longer stories. When he went to ruffle Achilles' curls, his other hand now automatically went to Patroclus' hair as well, mussing it affectionately. He had taken to calling him Skops for his large watchful eyes that made him look like a curious owl as he observed the world silently.

Early on after it had just started, Achilles had been alone and walking through the halls when he heard two of his fathers counselors laughing to themselves outside his chambers, saying that Peleus had all but signed Patroclus' death warrant with such affection.

"Once the prince gets fed up of not being the only source of attention, that boy will be gone in a heartbeat." They had laughed loudly at this and the other agreed. Neither knew he was just a few feet away, watching.

Achilles had run away to the olive groves then to think, abandoning whatever little quest he'd been on, worried they were right and he would not want to share his fathers love and attention and would grow jealous and hateful of his friend. But the more time went on and the more affection his father showed Patroclus, Achilles found he never minded. In fact, he enjoyed seeing Patroclus so loved by his father. After so long of living in fear of his own father and receiving no love, Achilles was so happy to see him flush with pride when his father called him kind or smart or any of the other million words that could apply to their Patroclus. His father was a great man, he wanted to share this abundant love and acceptance, not horde it for himself.

The three of them would stay in his fathers chambers long into the night on many occasions, listening to stories of his heroic days with Heracles and the golden fleece, or the other heroes he traveled with in his younger days. Achilles was excited to hear his father talk about what Philoctetes had been like as a young man, then what Patroclus said he'd been like when he'd seen him so long ago during the trials for Helen's hand. He only knew what these men were like in their youth from his fathers stories. His father often got so carried away with their stories that they stayed half the night and nearly into the morning before he ushered them off to their beds.

\--

His mother was the only downside of all of this. The happier he grew with Patroclus the angrier and more distant she became. She demanded he see her more and more often on the beach and her eyes grew colder. He knew she had hoped he would come crawling back and admit that she was right, that Patroclus was all wrong and he would wait to find another god child to be his companion, abandoning all ideas of a mortal to stand at his side. At first he had hoped she would grow to be happy for him if he told her how happy he himself was, telling her all kinds of stories of their days together when she asked how he spent his days. But the more he spoke the further she drew from him. Before, she had thought he would grow older and agree to go with her to the kingdom beneath the waves in time. Now, he had even more reason to stay behind and she hated it, hated Patroclus for giving Achilles a reason to live as a mortal boy in a mortal life for any longer. 

"I have not stopped loving you," he implored her, trying to explain that nothing had changed in his appreciation for his mother. He didn't know how to make her understand, it was nearly impossible if she did not want to, and she rarely liked any opinions but her own. He hoped that if she could just see that he was still so young, still had so much time to still live as she wanted him to someday. Just not yet, just not this day. He wanted to keep the life he loved so much. She would turn away and refuse to listen.

"If you loved me as you say you do, you would not choose others over your own mother at every turn." Her cold arms were crossed in front of her chest, her face hard and hurt. Achilles felt tears burning his throat but did not let them fall, never let them fall in front of her. He could say nothing in return, just watched her silently with mournful eyes and no words that could make her happy.

 Patroclus was curious at first of these visits, asking what the meetings were like, but Achilles could not say much, for each meeting was as the last.

"It is always the same. She wants to know what I am doing and if I am well. She speaks to me of my reputation among men. At the end she asks if I will come with her."

"Where?"

"The caves under the sea." He could still smell the salt on his feet. He had not washed them yet from this last meeting with her.

"Will you go?" His friend looked worried that he might wake to him gone without a good bye.

"My father says I should not. He says no mortal who sees them comes back the same."

Every night that he returned through their window, Patroclus would ask him how his mother was in his sleepy night voice, muffled a little by his pillow. Achilles would answer that she was well, and it was left at that. There was no more that could be said.

That is, until it was their second spring together. His mother stood before him as she always had, asking the usual questions first.

"Are you well, my son?"

"I am, mother."

"And the other boys, how do they treat you?"

"As ever, mother. I am their prince and they show me all respect that is due."

She nodded at this. Then, speaking a little stiffly. "And, Patroclus? How is he?"

He surprised at this. "He is well. He grows taller. Not as tall as I, but taller than before." He was so thrown by such a question he did not know what she could want to know about his companion, why it would be any concern of hers.

She nodded at this. "I would like to meet him. It is time I see the boy you have chosen." She said it with distaste but she seemed to at least be trying to hide it. Achilles was so taken aback he could not speak a moment. She hated mortals, yet she wanted to speak with Patroclus? Was this a good sign, or did she wish to scare his friend away to make room for someone she approved of? But how could he say no? This was something he could agree to, a wish of hers he could finally grant.

"Yes, of course mother." 

"Tomorrow," she said simply. And with that, she was gone and Achilles was alone. He stayed out longer than usual, procrastinating giving Patroclus the news. But finally, he could not put things off any longer and walked back to the palace, climbing in through their window.

"Is she well?" came the familiar question. Achilles felt terrible asking so much from his loyal friend, but he could do nothing to deny his goddess of a mother. If he had said no, she would have ambushed Patroclus when he was alone and Achilles could not help him. This way, he could prepare, at least.

"She is well. She wants to meet you."

"Do you think I should?"

He twirled a small stone he held idly, too embarrassed to look at him. "There is no harm in it. Tomorrow night, she said." 

"Tomorrow?"

He nodded in answer. 

Patroclus lifted his chin slightly in bravery and Achilles felt heartened that he was trying not to be scared. "Should I-Should I bring a gift? Honeyed wine?"

He felt another wave of embarrassment. "She doesn't like it."

He then coached his friend in how to act, sitting opposite him on his small pallet through the night. He should not appear afraid, but he should not appear prideful or defiant either. He need not call for her once he reached the beach, she would know he was there. He need only stand in the surf and wait for her. The next night he watched him climb through the window once the moon was high, feeling strange to be the one left behind. 

He waited for an hour. Then two, then three, then more and Patroclus did not return. His stomach began twisting in fear that his mother had done something, scared him or hurt him in some way that was keeping him from returning. No, she would not have hurt him. She did not care enough for humans to take the energy to kill one. At least, he hoped.

He crept out the window himself once the sun began to pink the horizon. He was nowhere on the beach, so Achilles went next to the olive groves and found him under one of their favorite trees. He was a little wet to the waist but drying, curled up to himself and looking down pensively. He looked unhurt but still troubled.

"What are you thinking about?" He was glad when Patroclus looked up at him and did not startle in fear. That had to be a good sign at the least. 

"Nothing." He made room for Achilles to sit beside him.

"Did she tell you that you would die soon?" Patroclus looked at him in surprise at this, so he figured he'd guessed right. He hated when she did that.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry." He hated that he'd brought such an uncomfortable time on his friend. Times like these, he felt he provided Patroclus' life with more troubles than good things. The wind blew a little and he saw Patroclus' hair get mussed, but he didn't seem to notice.

"She wants you to be a god."

"I know." He wanted to bury his face in his knees, it was all so embarrassing.

"Do you want to be- Do you want to be a god?"

"I don't know." He could see the good side of it. To be powerful and eternally young, never to grow old and weak and sick. But on the other hand, he did not understand the ways of the gods, did not know if he wanted to be like any of them, or around any other than his mother. "I don't know what it means, or how it happens." He looked down at his knees. He was afraid it would hurt, like they might burn the mortality out of him or something equally awful. "I don't want to leave here. When would it happen? Soon? And is there really a place like that? Olympus? She doesn't even how she will do it. She pretends she knows." He was speaking in a rush now, glad to finally air all these things to someone willing to listen and sympathize. "She thinks if I become famous enough..."

"Then the gods will take you voluntarily," Patroclus finished for him, understanding as he always did. 

He nodded, staying quiet.

"Achilles." He looked at Patroclus, who was watching him carefully with those big eyes brown as fresh earth. "Do you want to be a god?"

"Not yet." This he knew for certain. He cupped his chin and thought. "I'd like to be a hero, though. I think I could do it. If the prophecy is true. If there's a war. My mother says I am better than even Heracles was." He turned to face his friend fully. "Would you want to be a god?" He did not know if such a thing had ever crossed his friends mind, but now he wanted to know.

Patroclus laughed at this and he did too, relaxing. The tension had finally broken and they returned to themselves.

"I do not think that is likely." He stood then and held a hand to Achilles. He took it gladly and pulled himself up beside him. The sun was poring through the sky now, turning the world around them a soft gold.

"There were figs in the kitchen. I saw them," he said it as a dare, grinning broadly at his friends brightly lit face, now eased of fear and tension.

"I bet I can eat more than you."

"Race you!"

And so, as a single unit, they ran from their fears, leaving them to be burned away by the sun like the morning mist.


	7. Chapter 7

It was not until Achilles had met his thirteenth year that he began noticing the changes. Their bodies were lengthening, stretching their muscles painfully and driving them to sneak out to the warm bay waters to soak their aching muscles, moaning and rubbing at their calves. The softness of childhood was falling away to reveal the first true firmness of manhood, and Achilles began noticing it in his friend. He could see the muscles of his back work and move as he bent to wash his face each night, became very aware of the definition of those longer legs and arms as they wrestled or swam beside one another. When they fell into fits of laughter, he began to feel a strangeness in the pit of his stomach when those wide brown eyes met his own, sparkling with happiness.

But there were other changes that he noticed in the boys around him that he did not feel in himself. He heard the moans from pantries and closets, he saw the way the other boys played with the dresses of the serving girls, pulling them onto their laps and whispering in their ears. They might leave together in the middle of a meal, only for the girls to return disheveled and the boys with wide grins. He would hear them talk of the softness of their breasts, the slopes of their waists, the silkiness of their naked thighs. But as Achilles gazed on them all, he felt no stirrings within him. No interest in taking any of the girls to bed, no interest in their batting lashes or casual, "accidental" brushes against him. He knew it was expected of him, knew even his father often took a girl to his chambers at the ends of many nights, but beyond a detached appreciation for their beauty, he felt nothing for these women beyond what he might feel for a nice painting or sculpture on their courtyard.

His only consolation was that Patroclus seemed to feel much the same. He watched his friend politely smile at the girls but never make any advances, watched him chuckle politely and nod along as the other boys poked fun at him for turning down their advances, playing it off as if he did not even notice the suggestiveness of their comments. If they could not have the prince, many had set their eyes on having the next best thing, only to be just as disappointed. Achilles did not know why, but he liked that Patroclus was as uninterested as he was. He would not be losing his friend to a soft, doe eyed embrace any time soon.

\--

He knew he was in trouble the night they stayed late in his fathers chambers. Patroclus was being good and sitting in a chair beside his father while Achilles was sprawled on the cool floor in front of them. Patroclus was not yet accustomed to his new height and liked to make himself appear smaller still rather than sprawling his limbs about every which way like Achilles did, in a manner he knew many of his tutors felt was "wholly uncivilized."

His father was telling them a story, one he had heard many times before from Phoenix of Meleager and his arrogance. Achilles never liked this one much, it was too depressing. He preferred stories of heroism and overcoming obstacles. 

"Meleager was the finest warrior of his day, but also..."

Achilles let his mind wander away from the story, his fingers stirring the air as he chose to compose a song instead. Patroclus had told him he liked to watch birds flying low over the ocean, their wings skimming the water, and he wanted to make a song that was like that. He had the first part, the next was trickier.

"But one day, the king of Calydon said, 'Why must we give so much the Meleager? There are other worthy men in Calydon.'"

Achilles watched Patroclus' foot as it dangled not far from him. He was always so still, but sometimes he liked making little pattern with his toes against the marble as he listened. Achilles watched the muscles of his calf flex as he moved his foot this way and that over the marble.

"Meleager heard the words of the king and was enraged."

That morning he'd been reckless. He'd wanted to prove to himself that nothing had changed, that truly there was nothing he felt for Patroclus but friendship. He had woken early and pounced on his friend to wake him up, pressing their noses together and smiling down at his sleepy, surprised eyes. It had not helped.

His father continued to speak and he continued to be bored. Reaching out, he took hold of the twirling foot and gave it a light tug. He met Patroclus' look with a wide grin.

"Calydon had fierce enemies, and when..."

Patroclus poked his foot into Achilles' face, Achilles took hold of his ankle. 

"They attacked. And the city of Calydon suffered terrible losses."

Achilles pulled on Patroclus, yanking him half out of the chair. He had to stifle a laugh as Patroclus clung to the chair to stop himself from toppling.

"So the people went to Meleager, to beg him for his help. And- Achilles, are you listening?"

He grinned wider. "Yes, Father."

"You are not. You are tormenting our poor Skops."

Patroclus pouted pitifully and Achilles went to squeeze him behind his knee as he often had, knowing it was a ticklish spot on his friend, but found it all of a sudden felt too intimate to reach his hand up his friends bare leg and grab hold beneath his thigh. He let his arms fall to his sides instead, feeling a little flushed.

"It is just as well, perhaps. I am getting tired. We will finish the story another evening."

Both stood and took a turn wishing his father a good night. They had not gone far before Peleus called to his son.

"Achilles, you might look for the light-haired girl from the kitchen. She has been haunting doorways for you, I hear."

Achilles turned so his father could not see his face, trying to keep it neutral. "Perhaps, Father. I am tired."

His father chuckled at this, as if he thought Achilles was merely pretending to be uninterested. "I'm sure she could wake you up."

Achilles waited to be waved off then moved from the room quickly, not wanting his father or Patroclus to see his face. He felt embarrassed, he felt angry, and he felt terribly conflicted. He knew that he should want to take one of these girls, he knew he should feel things for them. But at night, when he closed his eyes, it was not them that he imagined leaning over him, touching him. These hands were larger, darker. Ones he had seen too often to be thinking of like this. He shook himself, washing his face vigorously in the basin.

"That girl..." Patroclus' voice came from behind him, unsteady and unsure. "Do you like her?"

Oh gods, did Patroclus want her? He did not want him to want her. He was selfish, he did not want Patroclus to want anyone but him, even if it was not in the way one might want a woman.

"Why? Do you?" He tried to keep his voice soft and casual, but he knew it was strained.

"No, no. That is not what I meant. I mean, do you want-"

Achilles did not know what came over him. Perhaps it was happiness that Patroclus did not desire someone else. Perhaps it was a thoughtless impulse, as that morning had been. Whatever it was, he had crossed the room in a handful of strides and crashed into Patroclus, letting them both fall back onto the pallet with Patroclus underneath him, their faces a breath from touching.

"I'm sick of talking about her."

He could feel Patroclus' chest against his own, he could see nothing but those wide brown eyes, brown as fresh earth, a brown no jewel could compare to. He could feel Patroclus' breath on his lips, knew his mouth was just there and if he were to lean forward just a little more-

No, he could not. He could not take that step, no matter how he wished it. It was too much, too soon. He could not trust himself when he thought like this, he could not trust himself to think that Patroclus truly would want what he wanted.

He moved off of him quickly, striding to the other side of the room as if nothing at all had happened, pouring himself water with hands he was glad were not trembling.

"Good night."

\--

Their last day of childhood was in the summer. It was a warm day, and like the one where he had first met Patroclus, he did not want to do anything but enjoy the sunshine. He and Patroclus were alone on the beach, leaning against driftwood that had been rubbed smooth by sand and surf. Achilles shifted, and his foot fell against Patroclus'. He liked his friends feet; they are dark and calloused and firm against his own. They feel sturdy and dependable, just like Patroclus. He hums a song he played earlier for Patroclus, one of his few favorites that he had not written. It was a simple piece, but it was a beautiful melody. He turned, and Patroclus was gazing at him in a way he had not seen him gaze before.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He looks Patroclus over now, really looks. His chin is sharper than before, the angles of his face becoming more defined. His hair has grown more, and hangs a little in his face. Achilles likes it like this.

And oh, he can smell him. He can smell the figs they snuck from the kitchen that morning and ate in secret. He can smell the salt of the ocean on him, and the flowers they walked through to reach this spot. And underneath, that strange and indescribable scent he has found on nothing but Patroclus. It is one he knows well, one he has often found clinging to his skin after they have wrestled. It is his favorite, above all others. Patroclus does not know this.

He leans towards his friend a little, just a little. Truthfully, he does not know what he is doing. He knows it is stupid, he knows it is reckless. He knows he should turn away and comment on the way the water looks, or ask if he wants to play a game. But he does not. He watches Patroclus, watches the way his mouth opens ever so slightly, watches him swallow. Watches him lean in as well. And then, he feels the warm mouth he has dreamt of for many nights against his own.

Part of him knows they are probably doing it wrong. That their heads should be tilted differently, their mouths should be moving differently. But he does not care, all he can think of is how wonderfully soft Patroclus' mouth is, how he can taste those figs on the very tip of Patroclus' tongue. He feels as if he has been filled to the brim with lightning, and might burst at any second.

And then Patroclus is gone, moved back and watching him. Achilles thinks many things in the space of a second. He thinks of all the girls he never desired to do this with. He thinks of Apollo and Hyacinthus, or Heracles and his dalliances with other boys. He thinks of waking his friend every morning with their noses pressed together. He thinks he wants to do that again.

And then he hears it, like a ship running aground in a storm.

**_Achilles._ **

And then he thinks of his mother. His mother, goddess of the sea. His mother, who watches him always when he is near the water. His mother, who hates this boy.

And then he is running, as fast as he can, away from Patroclus. He has made a grave mistake, he has possibly ruined everything. He must find his mother, he must explain things, make her understand that this is not what she thinks it is. He must-

He turns a corner and she is there, towering tall and terrible before him, her black eyes cold.

"Mother, I-"

"Enough." She does not raise her voice, but he feels as if she has. He feels as if he has been struck by the anger and disappointment within it. "This is over. I have let you spoil for too long under your fathers lazy thumb, you are no longer thinking properly. You must be taken to be disciplined, to become a man now. I should have done this long ago."

"Mother, it was an accident, it shall not happen again." He does not want to go, will beg her not to make him go.

"It is beyond time for you to be trained as the heroes before you. Tomorrow, you shall leave to train with Chiron, who has trained all before you."

Achilles wanted to scream. She was not listening! She never listened! "Mother, I beg you, please."

"No more of this, Achilles. You may not care for your reputation, but I do. You may not care for your future, but I do. I am your mother, I must do what is best for you. In time, you shall forget this mortal boy. You shall become a hero greater than all before you. You shall find another companion, more suited to your status. You shall become gods together. That boy shall die soon enough and you shall remain eternal." She lifted her chin. "Go pack your things. I shall bring you to Mt. Pelion tomorrow." And with that, she was gone. Achilles did not know what to do. She would not harm Patroclus, but he would not see Patroclus again. He looked to the mountain range named for his father. He was to live there, with a man he did not know. It was not fair, they could not take Patroclus from him!

And yet, she could. She could do anything she wished. So, Achilles turned and slowly walked towards the palace to pack his things, the sun setting on the water behind him.

\--

He sat in their room, alone. By the time he had returned, his father had been told of the newly formed plans. He embraced his son tightly, eyes tearful but proud. He talked on and on of how he was to be trained by the greatest of all, how no one shall ever forget the name of his great son. He did not see the tears misting his sons eyes, could not see his pain. All he saw was the man and the hero he was to become, all that anyone ever saw. Anyone, except Patroclus.

He kicked at his bed softly, his things in a small pack beside him. He did not have much he wished to bring. Some clothes, a knife for carving, and of course Patroclus' mothers lyre. If he could not have him, it would be all he had left. He hoped it would bring him some peace in his long, lonely road ahead.

He heard someone enter the room and looked up, hoping it was his father, come to tell him things had changed and he did not have to leave. But it was Patroclus, and he did not know what to say. He could still feel the phantom of their kiss against his lips. He had lost it all before he had ever truly had it. He watched his friend walk over to his own bed and sit, head hung in shame. Achilles did not know what to say.

_What am I to do without you? What shall you do without me? I can no longer remember what it is like to be I and not us, I do not know how. I do not want to be alone again._

"I'm supposed to leave tomorrow."

"Oh," was the only reply.

"I'm going to be taught by Chiron. He taught Heracles. And Perseus." If Patroclus were anyone else, he would congratulate Achilles. He would say he is happy for him, he would say he deserves this, that he knows he will become a great hero. But Patroclus is no one else, and he does not say these things. He knows Achilles is not happy, he knows this is not what he wanted. He is the only one who knows, the only one who ever cared to hear what Achilles felt on the matter. He knows he is not ready.

He undressed, his tunic sticking to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Patroclus averting his gaze. He did not turn to look at him before getting into bed. He did not sleep, though he knew he should. He could not, after all that had happened. He simply lay awake, listening to the sound of the waves and his companion's breathing. Such sounds had always lulled him to sleep, but were now the reason he kept awake. If he was to live in the mountains alone but for his teacher, he would have neither for a very long time. And they were above all his favorite sounds. He watched the moon travel across their window, listening.

He rose at dawn, readying himself as slowly as possible, often looking over at his sleeping companion. He knew he should wake him and say goodbye, but he did not know if he could bare to utter the words. Knew that those last few words were probably the last they would ever say to one another. No, their last words could not be goodbye. But he did wish to wake him, wished to shake him awake and ask him what he is thinking about, why his favorite color is green, what he hopes they shall have for breakfast and if he thinks the eggs in the nest above the armory have hatched. A thousand things he wants to know and will never be able to hear again. He pauses at their door, taking a deep breath, trying to control the tears that threaten his throat. He did not dare look back one last time, knowing it would undo him completely. So he left, his room disappearing behind him.

He gave his father one last embrace outside the palace, his father wishing him luck and telling him that all would be well, he need only respect Chiron and train hard, and he would be a hero in no time. His father did not linger, for fear of facing his mother. She came soon after had had left, putting a hand between her sons shoulders and leading him down the long road to the mountains. He thought she must be doing this for fear that he would run back if she did not keep her eye on him. He also thought her fears were probably correct.

She stopped as the road ended and a path into the mountains began, wishing to go no further. She told him the paths he must follow to find where Chiron would meet him, gave him a cool hug and kissed each cheek once before disappearing into the air, leaving him alone. He took a last deep breath, and began his climb.


	8. Chapter 8

Achilles walked all morning. He watched the sun rise through the trees as he followed the path, the only life he'd ever known fading to nothing behind his back. His feet kicked up little clouds of dust as he walked, filling his sandals with grit and small rocks. He stopped in the late morning to eat, sitting on a rock and looking over a small cliff at their kingdom and the ocean beyond. It really was rather small. It had seemed so large his whole life, but from above it was like nothing at all. He thought Patroclus might like to see it like this.

He ran the next leg of the journey, pushing his half god body as hard as he could, furious at it for being like this and forcing him to have no choice in his future. If he were human like Patroclus, he could simply be a king or a soldier or whatever he wished. But it had been ordained long ago that he was to be a hero, and he had no choice but to be one.

He ran until the trees thickened and he threw his arms around one, panting and gripping it, pressing his forehead against it. His hair stuck to his forehead and he knew his face must be tinged with an angry red but he did not care. He was upset and alone and he didn't know what to do. He missed his father. He missed home. He missed Patroclus.

He continued on and on before giving in to the soreness of his legs and rested. Sitting on a rock, he took a drink of his water and thought, realizing after a moment that he may have underestimated his friend. Patroclus had shunned the crown prince of his foster home purely out of spite. He had dared a god child graced with fighting to a duel. He had more spirit and determination than anyone else Achilles had ever met. He may not give up as easily as Achilles had. And he knew where Achilles was going, knew where to find him.

Would he come? Would he dare? He might, and Achilles could not leave him alone in the forest. If Patroclus was going to take a chance, then Achilles had to as well. He needed to be brave, after all, if he could ever become a hero.

Walking a few feet into the trees, he found a cool shady spot beneath a large tree and, pillowing his head with his pack, fell quickly into a dreamless sleep.

He jerked awake early in the afternoon at the sound of panting breaths and stumbling feet. Crouching behind the brush, he waited, holding his breath. Then, just as he'd hoped, out burst Patroclus. He was sweat covered, mottled from head to toe in dirt, and absolutely exhausted. Achilles did not know if he had ever been happier to see his friend than in that moment. He began to slowly follow Patroclus from behind as he continued forward, determined beyond his exhaustion. Achilles moved to step out behind him and accidentally put his foot onto a crinkled leaf, making just the slightest sound but enough for Patroclus to hear. He stiffened warily, looking around for some fiend stalking him. 

Achilles pounced then, tackling his friend happily. Patroclus stiffened in fear beneath him, as if waiting for him to strike a blow.

"Patroclus." Even if he could not see his face, he knew Patroclus would know his voice anywhere, just as he would know Patroclus' anywhere. He moved and turned his friend over, unable to control his grin. "I hoped you would come." Patroclus looked back up at him. He seemed breathless, but happy and unhurt. Achilles wanted to grab him in a fierce hug, thank him a thousand times for following him. He did not deserve such a friend.

"Is the boy hurt?" The deep voice came from behind them and he turned to look. He tried not to be afraid as he looked upon Chiron for the first time. Towering taller than even the largest horse he had seen to his back alone, he looked neither old nor young but terribly intimidating. Achilles had missed meeting with him by quite some time now.

"I am assuming, Achilles Pelides, that this is why you have not joined me on the mountain?" He did not sound angry, but he did not sound genial or particularly kind. Achilles tried not to be afraid, he knew this man would not hurt them.

"Greetings, Master Chiron, and my apologies. Yes, it is why I have not come."

"I see." He regarded them. "Stand up."

He rose. Patroclus got his first unobstructed view of Chiron and scrambled back, looking afraid. Achiles guessed no one had told him that Chiron was not a normal man.

He bowed to Chiron. "Master Centaur. I am sorry for the delay. I had to wait for my companion." He knelt then, bowing his head. "Please accept my apologies. I have long wished to be your student."

The centaur was silent a moment. "You do not need to kneel to me, Pelides. Though I appreciate the courtesy. And who is this companion that has kept us both waiting?"

Achilles helped Patroclus to his feet, not wanting him to be left nervous on the forest floor. He presented his friend proudly.

"This is Patroclus."

Patroclus spoke after a moment, nervous. "My lord." He bowed.

"I am not a lord, Patroclus Menoitiades."

Achilles did not know how Chiron knew his friends name. The immortals of the world were certainly strange in their powers.

"I am a centaur, and a teacher of men. My name is Chiron." Patroclus did not answer, just swallowed nervously beside him. Chiron looked him over quizzically. "You are overtired, I think. You need water and food, both. It is a long way to my home on Pelion, too long for you to walk. So we must make other arrangements."

Achilles nodded wordlessly. He was relieved he would let Patroclus come, but was now feeling very nervous all of a sudden. Nervous to be around Patroclus after everything that had happened, nervous to be away from his home, nervous to be around this strange and scary centaur.

"You will ride on my back. I do not usually offer such things on first acquaintance. But exceptions must be made." He paused then, looking them over once again, sizing them up. "You have been taught to ride, I suppose?"

They nodded hastily.

"That is unfortunate. Forget what you learned. I do not like to be squeezed by legs or tugged at. The one in front will hold on to my waist, the one behind will hold on to him. If you feel that you are going to fall, speak up."

Achilles looked to Patroclus, who seemed terribly nervous to touch the centaur. He stepped forward first to climb up.   
"How should I-?"

"I will kneel." He folded himself to the earth with surprising grace. "Take my arm for balance." Achilles held onto the mans arm, hoisting himself up and over onto the wide back. It felt strange and different, but not entirely painful or unpleasant. Chiron was narrower near his front than his middle where Patroclus would be sitting.

Patroclus was next, slinging himself up behind Achilles, adjusting his position a few times, unsure of himself.

"I will stand now." And so he did, rising higher than Achilles had expected. Patroclus grabbed to his torso for balance, clinging to him. Achilles merely held lightly to Chirons waist until Chiron spoke. "You will fall, if you hold so lightly."

And then they were off, Achilles clinging to him and Patroclus clinging to Achilles. They moved more swiftly than Achilles ever had on horseback, faster than even he had run before. He wondered how fast he might be if he too had four legs.

They moved quickly through the trees, everything a blur of brown and green around them. He tried not to bounce too much, thought his new master might dislike such a thing, but could not help it when he jumped so roughly over boulders and crevasses, plunging ever upwards with ease. 

He called to them as they went, pointing out aspects of their new home. There was Mount Orthrys, and there the cypress trees were thicker than they would find anywhere else. Achilles looked to Patroclus happily, exulting in sharing this with him. Patroclus will like it here, he thinks.

\--

Chiron came to a lurching halt suddenly, sending him and Patroclus knocking forward and scrambling to keep balance. They were in a small circle of broken woods, with trees to one side and a rock outcropping to the other. If Achilles stretched his neck, he could see that they were very nearly at the peak itself. It was exhilarating and dizzying at once to be so high, higher than he had ever been.

"We are here," Chiron stated simply, as if it were not obvious, and knelt for them to dismount, Achilles' knees wobbling a bit. He turned then and found himself looking at the most beautiful cave he had ever seen. It was not like the caves you might find by an oceans cliff, damp and dark and filled with moss or algae and crawling things you did not want to see. This was made of a pale rose quartz and dazzled in the sun. Achilles thought that if he touched the walls, they might be pleasantly warm.

"Come," the centaur instructed, leading them inside. It was dim but not dark inside, and wonderfully decorated. On the walls hung strange objects made of gleaming bronze, jars of many colors, tools and pots and instruments that Achilles itched to play, and the ceiling was decorated to imitate the constellations of the night sky and their movements across the heavens above. He loved it all, already. A spring was at the very end, bubbling softly into the rocks.

He looked to one wall and spied the bed where he would sleep, sized for a single person. He had never shared a bed before, and his face warmed a little at the thought of sharing it with his friend after all that had happened. Patroclus seemed unbothered.

"Sit down." Achilles startled, having forgotten for a moment that Chiron was there, watching him. He sat on one of the cushions in the cave beside his friend, still looking around, drinking everything in. Chiron walked over to them with two cups of water from the spring and he drank deeply, parched from the sun and dust. "You will be sore and tired tomorrow," he said to Patroclus. "But it will be better if you eat." 

He gave them a thick stew to eat, then a small bowl of ripe red berries that burst in Achilles mouth as he ate them. Patroclus kept looking to him, and he kept looking to Patroclus, bubbling with excitement that they were still together, that they had not been separated. No one could take Patroclus from him, and no one could take him from Patroclus. It simply could not be done, they would not allow it.

Patroclus swallowed the last of his meal and gestured to the strange bronze objects hanging around them. "What are those?"

"They are for surgery." 

"Surgery?" Patroclus sounded confused, and Achilles felt the same. He did not know the word, not even Phoenix had ever mentioned it.

"Healing. I forget the barbarities of the low countries." He did not say this meanly, simply said it as if he were stating any other fact. "Sometimes a limb must go." He pointed to one tool, then another. "Those are for cutting, those for suturing. Often by removing some, we may save the rest." Patroclus looked at them all, and Achilles watched him. He had never seen his friend so interested in something he was being taught. "Do you wish to learn medicine?"

Patroclus ducked his head a little. "I don't know anything about it."

"You answer a different question than the one I asked."

"I'm sorry master Chiron."

"There is no need to be sorry. Simply answer." Achilles liked Chiron. He liked that he did not sweeten his words, but he did not make them sting either. It was a strange form of gentleness, a sincere truthfulness of Chiron never adding any more than he felt to his words that Achilles admired.

"Yes," Patroclus said finally. "I would like to learn. It seems useful, does it not?"

"It is very useful." He turned to Achilles then, who had forgotten that he might become part of the conversation as well. "And you, Pelides? Do you also think medicine is useful?"

"Of course," he answered. He paused then for a moment. "Please do not call me Pelides. Here I am- I am just Achilles." He wanted Chiron to see him for who he was, not who his father was. He'd had enough of that at home.

Chiron seemed almost amused by this. He wondered how many other heroes before him had said the very same thing.

"Very well. Do you see anything you wish to know of?"

Achilles immediately looked to the gleaming musical instruments, pointing to them. "Those." He looked back to his teacher, imagining those large rough hands cradling the delicate instruments. "Do you play?"

"I do."

"So do I. I have heard that you taught Heracles and Jason, thick-fingered though they were. Is it true?" It was strange to think of such men sitting where he sat, speaking to Chiron as he did now.

"It is."

Achilles nodded at this. This was the only man who he would desire to be his musical teacher from now on. He was not like the men who had been his tutors before, the men who looked down upon anyone who did not know something they did, who looked clinically upon what was supposed to be beautiful. Chiron understood music as he did, he felt it.

"I would like you to teach me."

Chiron nearly smiled at this, he was sure of it. "That is why you have been sent here. So that I may teach you what I know."

\--

After they had finished eating, Chiron used what light they had left to show them around their new home. He showed them the dens of the mountain lions and how to avoid them, then over to the lazy river at the foot of a small embankment, fringed with young trees on either side as well as long flat rocks for lying in the sun. Achilles was so happy to still live beside water, even if it were not the ocean. He did not think he could live without its presence.

"You may bathe, if you like," he said, looking at Patroclus, who was still covered from head to toe in mud and dust from his hard day.

"I will too," Achilles said, pulling his tunic off and moving into the water. Patroclus was right behind him. As they scrubbed at themselves in the cool water, Chiron continued to teach them. He told them how to tell apart the different river fish, where else they might be found besides their secluded area in the mountains. Achilles submerged himself up to his nose and listened, soaking in the coolness of the water, the soft babble of the water, and Chirons calming voice, all with Patroclus beside him. It was so serene, so peaceful that he could not recall the fear and sadness of the day before. It felt like a lifetime away.

They soon left the water, shaking the loose dripping beads from their hair. He helped Patroclus wash his tunic, ignoring their nakedness. They would have to be used to each others bodies if they were to bathe together like this from now on. He could no longer become distracted by such things, things that could never again be as he secretly wished they could.

Chiron taught every moment that he could. Here is where they might hunt for deer, there was a branch snapped by ones hoof, and they would soon learn how to spot such things and track their prey, both animal and human. They learned of the animals and the forest, what they could and could not eat. It was all so different from the cool, clean palace life they had left behind. Achilles enjoyed the rocky earth beneath his feet and the sound of the murmuring river never far away. Birds chirped around them, small animals moved within the underbrush. There was never the thick silence of the palace, always there was some sound to be heard.

It was dark when they returned and Chiron sent them to find more wood for the fire, then showed them how to make it. The flames roared and crackled and they warmed their cool bodies beside it, sleep beginning to wear on them. They sat tangled together beside the fire sleepily, heads nodding a little. They ate more of the thick stew, scooping it with a thin kind f bread Achilles had not eaten before but enjoyed. They talked of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, their words lazy clouds floating around them as they spoke.

Patroclus' head dipped against his shoulder a little. Achilles might have begun falling asleep as well, if Chiron had not spoken.

"I will tell you that your mother has sent a message, Achilles."

Both boys stilled, Achilles clenching his fist against the earth.

"Oh? What did she say?" Perhaps it had nothing to do with Patroclus, perhaps it had to do with his training.

"She said that should the exiled son of Menoitius follow you, I was to bar him from your presence." He said this slowly, watching Achilles' face. Patroclus sat up straight, moving slightly away from Achilles.

"Did she say why?" Had she told Chiron of the beach? Would he care? He did not think he would, but he did not know. Such things were not often talked about beyond childish experimentation.

"She did not." His voice was measured, a little angry but not quite. Achilles felt Patroclus relax beside him ever so slightly. He felt terribly that Patroclus was embarrassed by what they had done. He had not meant to cause him such discomfort.

"I assume," Chiron continued, "you knew of her feelings on the matter. I do not like to be deceived."

Patroclus spoke up first. "I'm sorry. It is not Achilles' fault, I came on my own. He did not know that I would. I did not think-" He paused, swallowing. "I hoped she would not notice." Patroclus hung his head a little at the way it came out. Achilles knew how he felt, they had both been naive to think she would not know.

"That was foolish of you."

"Chiron-" Achilles interjected, desperate to speak up for his friend who was beginning to shrink so far into himself as he had not done since he had first come to Phthia.

Chiron simply held up his hand, silencing him. "As it happens, the message came this morning, before either of you arrived. So despite your foolishness, I was not deceived."

"You knew?" Achilles spoke hopefully. "Then you have decided? You will disregard her message?"

Chiron sounded displeased at his eagerness. "She is a goddess, Achilles, and your mother besides. Do you think so little of her wishes?"

Achilles felt a little wounded, but not deeply. It was difficult to explain to outsiders the complexities of his relationship with his mother. He did not expect anyone to understand that he could love her so dearly but be so angry at her and her wishes, nor did he think she could explain the way he was both a burden and a treasure to her. It was something only the two of them could fully comprehend.

"I honor her, Chiron. But she is wrong in this." He held his hands tightly, trying not to become more angry at her, that she could be not even here and still trying to pry Patroclus from him.

"And why is she wrong, Pelides?"

He could feel two pairs of eyes watching him curiously, knew it was up to him to convince Chiron of Patroclus' worth. But he did not know how to say it, did not know how to make anyone else understand what Patroclus' presence in his life meant to him.

"She feels that-" He faltered a bit, grasping for a way to make Chiron understand. "That he is mortal and not a fit companion."

"Do you think he is?" Chiron watched him still and Achilles felt a little surprised that an immortal was asking his opinion of Patroclus' worth. He simply assumed all would be like his mother and assume a lack of divine blood meant a lack of worth.

He lifted his chin. "Yes." From the corner of his eye, he saw Patroclus duck his head and smile a little to himself.

"I see." Chiron turned his stone gaze to Patroclus. "And you, Patroclus? You are worthy?"

"I do not know if I am worthy. But I wish to stay." He paused a moment, then added, "Please."

The world was silent as Chiron regarded them, weighing their answers. "When I brought you both here, I had not decided yet what I would do. Thetis sees many faults, some that are and some that are not."

Achilles listened, wondering what Chirons impression of his friend was. His face gave away nothing.

"She is also young," he continued, "and has the prejudices of her kind. I am older and flatter myself that I can read a man more clearly. I have no objection to Patroclus as your companion."

Achilles sagged a little in relief, wanting to throw his arms around both of them.

"She will not be pleased, but I have weathered the anger of gods before." He paused then, finished with the seriousness of the discussion, having given his answer. "And now it is late, and time for you to sleep."

"Thank you, Master Chiron." He tried to keep his voice even and from breaking, so relieved that he would not lose Patroclus. They stood together and he looked to Patroclus for them to enter the cave, but Patroclus paused.

"I just want-" He gestured to Chiron and Achilles nodded, leaving for the cave and giving them a moment. Achilles washed his face, looking over his shoulder at their dark silhouettes against the light of the fire, unable to hear the conversation. Neither moved much or gestured, so he could not see what the nature of Patroclus' question might have been. But, he saw Patroclus nod at whatever Chiron said back to him, bow goodnight, and return to Achilles' side.


	9. Chapter 9

For all his fear of leaving his home of the palace behind, Achilles loved life on Mt. Pelion more than he ever thought he could. He woke every morning with Patroclus already up and rubbing at his eyes, asking him what he thought they might do that day. They might be taught to better catch fish, or where they might find berries for a snack on a warm day. They learned to care for the goats that wandered the hills and how to kill a bird as it flew from its nest. They learned to make their own meals and fix their own clothes should they tear from their newly roughened lifestyle.

Chiron knew how to turn anything into a lesson. One day he and Patroclus had been following their teacher up the steep ravine wall after catching small fish and learning how to use them as bait for the larger fish as well as a good meal if lost in the woods. Achilles had been in the middle of a question when he heard a crumbling sound and Patroclus crying out. By the time he turned, his friend and part of the ravine they were climbing were out of sight. Chiron had to catch his arm to keep him from throwing himself off the embankment to get to his friend, calling out his name, frantic for an answer. Chiron calmed him carefully, leading him down a safer and longer path before they could reach Patroclus, who was bleeding from one leg and clutching his arm in pain. Achilles had been panicked, but Chiron held onto Patroclus to keep him from injuring himself further and slowly instructed Achilles on what to bring back to him from the cave. Within a few minutes Patroclus was drowsily unaware of any pain and Achilles had helped Chiron splint his arm and pack his injuries with herbs to keep them clean and healthy. He then showed them how they might be able to tell by eye what rocks may come loose and crumble beneath their feet, and which they could be sure would hold them. It was a long time after that before Achilles let Patroclus walk behind him again, always wanting to keep an eye on him and make sure that if he should fall, Achilles would be able to catch him.

Their lessons included hunting and stealth as well as gentleness and care. They learned how to heal an animal as well as kill it, and when they should do which. They made their own weapons with patience and care and never wasted anything they got their hands to. The walls of their cave became littered with half made shafts and arrowheads and slings and the few knives they had with him which were rarely used for anything besides the creation of other weapons. Patroclus was especially deft with wood, quickly forming an axe handle from a fallen ash. Soon Chiron would teach them to forge with metals so they would not have to make their tools with stone.

It was a month before Chiron asked them what specifically they wished to learn from him. 

"Those," Patroclus had said, pointing to the tools of healing. After the incident with the ravine, which had left a terrible scar on Patroclus' leg that Achilles did not like to look at, he also wished to learn such things. Chiron might not always be there when Patroclus needed him. Carefully Chiron had taken a few down, handing them over.

"Careful. The blade is very sharp. It is for when there is rot in the flesh that must be cut. Press the skin around the wound, and you will hear a crackle." Achilles had tested the blade against his finger and found it bringing a spot of blood, surprised by its sharpness after so much time on the wall without use.

Next they learned the bones of the body, and there were many. They traced them and whispered their names over to themselves to preserve their memory. They learned where each organ lay beneath the skin, and how important it was.

"A wound in any of them will eventually be fatal. But death is quickest here." He then tapped a finger against Achilles' temple, and it felt so strange to be touched in the easiest place to cause his own death. He had never thought of such a thing occurring. Even with his protestations to his mother, he had still thought of himself as immortal. Although to be fair, he thought the same of Patroclus as well.

Each night they lay in the cool grass outside their cave, Chiron telling them the stories of the stars. Achilles would listen and think of himself up there someday, slaying some great beast, and Patroclus beside him. He could not imagine being up there alone as the others were, it seemed so cold and lonely in the stars without a companion.

When Chiron spoke of Heracles, Achilles was most interested. He knew only of his greatness from his father, he had never been told of the reason for his great deeds, that the gods had driven him mad enough to kill those he loved most, then punished him for the action. Achilles could not imagine how someone could do such a thing. When he looked at his companion, he could see no world where he would not know that face, no power within the gods to make him forget.

"How could he not recognize his wife?" Achilles had asked, gazing at Patroclus and trying to imagine such a thing.

"That is the nature of madness." He sounded almost sad as he spoke of the man, and young boy, he had once known. 

"But why did the madness come?" He could still not understand this either, could not understand what any of them had done to deserve such a thing. Was it not Zeus who had done the deed worthy of angering his wife?

"The gods wished to punish him."

"But this was a greater punishment for her. It was not fair of them." He felt childish saying such things, declaring the world unfair, but unfairness angered him. It was not right for innocent people to be treated such a way.

"There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles. And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?"

He did. "Perhaps."

Later, when stories of death and madness were through, Achilles would play the lyre for them. He found he loved music more now than he ever had with such a wonderful audience. He did not think he could ever find any more appreciative of the music he played than the two who listened beside the fire with him. He had once joked that he could make Patroclus follow him anywhere with the lyre that had belonged to his mother, but in his heart he had felt full to bursting when Patroclus had said he had risked leaving it behind to be with Achilles instead. He knew it was not the lyre that would keep Patroclus at his side. He simply hoped he could one day be a hero worthy of such a devoted companion.

\--

Achilles quickly lost track of the days spent on their mountain. The only sign of time passing was in the days slowly growing colder around them. They began dressing in thick furs, many dwarfing small Patroclus as they were made for boys the size of a young Heracles. Once they had begun waking with their breath forming clouds in the air they hung furs by the cave entrance as well, trapping in the heat. Achilles would sleep pressed closer to his friend the colder it became, knowing the proximity would be shrugged off as an unconscious move for warmth. During the day they would walk with Chiron to collect meat to be stored, marveling at the patterns of frost on the grass and leaves. Patroclus seemed to love it dearly, and Achilles would try to find ones he thought his friend might like especially. They waited eagerly for the snow to fall so that they might feel such a thing with their own hands and see it with their own eyes. He had only heard of such a thing from old songs, and it had never seemed real. Achilles hoped there would be lots of it, enough to bury his hands in. He thought it might feel like sand, but cold.

It was not yet deep into winter when he was wakened by Patroclus' frightened voice.

" _Achilles._ "

He woke with a start, moving to his friends side in an instant, checking him for any injuries. He did not know if perhaps he had fallen again, or been hurt by an animal or injured while trying to make the morning fire. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he raked his friend with his eyes to find any blood or deformity to show him where the danger had been inflicted.

"Are you all right?"

"Your mother is here." He said it very softly, his voice a little lost in fear. Achilles wanted to hold his friend tightly and assure him things would be all right. He wanted to storm outside and scold his mother for scaring his poor friend so terribly and so often.

"She did not hurt you?" He could not be sure, could never be sure with her. She had never hurt a human to his knowledge, but he did not trust her to keep her hands from Patroclus. He had told Achilles of the day on the beach when she had nearly strangled him in her anger. She did not understand the frailties of mortals.

Patroclus shook his head that he was not hurt. Achilles simply nodded, trying to take a calming breath. "I must go." He had to speak with her, if she was here. She would be angry, and time waiting would not help.

He met her in the clearing, Chiron leaving them space to speak. She was angry, it seemed she was always angry now, and she stared at him quietly, waiting for him to speak, to apologize, to throw himself on his knees and beg for forgiveness for this transgression as he always had. But he no longer wished to. He stayed silent as well, and let her break the air with words first.

"You were told."

"Yes, mother."

"You were told many times, Achilles. You knew I had forbidden this and yet you allowed it to happen. You should have turned him away, refused to speak or hear him. And yet you have been living on this mountain with  _that-_ " she spat the word like poison. "Letting him weaken you, distract you from your future. If you cannot control yourself now how can you think you shall ever become a hero? A god? Do you think they will allow such things? Do you think-"

"Mother," he interrupted then. He had not interrupted her ever before to his knowledge. "I have made my decision. This was my choice to make and I have made it. I shall become a hero as you wish, but I shall do it as I wish it, not as you wish it of me. I hate to cause you pain and to disobey you, but a hero cannot be a hero while listening to what others tell him to do. He must think for himself if he should ever succeed, you have taught me this. What is done is done." He lifted his chin and waited, waited for her anger and wrath, for the shrill shrieking of her voice at his insolence. But there was only silence. She looked him over slowly, eyes travelling over him. He knew what she saw. Not the soft, put together boy living within palace walls and spending his days idly juggling figs. He was dressed as Heracles and Perseus had dressed before him, he had grown taller and firmer from their work. He had learned to speak for himself.

"I do not like it," she said finally.

"I know."

"I shall visit you often, to make sure this boy is not spoiling your future."

"Your presence is not a threat, mother. I love you, and I wish to see you." He wanted more than anything for things between them to be as they once were. This was the closest they could be, for now. A grudging respect on her side was not what he wanted, but it was progress.

"All right." She paused then, taking a breath and straightening her shoulders. "Tell me what the centaur has been teaching you, my son."

He told her of the hunting and the healing, of learning to read the land with a glance. She liked that he could live off the plants and the animals, could make anything he needed from a fallen tree. She asked many questions, and he gave many answers. Chiron came to them then and answered everything she asked of him, telling her how Achilles had grown in his time there and what more there was yet for him to learn. It was nearly past mid day when she finally embraced him and then departed, uneasy so far from her home beneath the waves. She promised to return soon. Chiron had bid her farewell and she had looked hard at him from across the glade.

"Take care of my son."

He had nodded at this. "Of course, goddess."

And with that she left, and they returned to where Patroclus waited for them. He looked up eagerly when he saw Achilles had come back. He was tired then, his mother always made him feel so tired. He threw himself onto the mess of furs, warmed by Patroclus.

"I'm hungry." He had heard once that men in battle did not feel hunger nor thirst until they returned to their tents, and that was how he felt now. He had been so on guard that he had not noticed the lack of food in his stomach until he was safely within the cave walls once more.

"As well you should be. It is much past lunch." Chiron began busying himself with food then. Achilles turned to Patroclus, wanting to ease the worries he saw floating in his friends eyes.

"It is all right. She just wanted to speak to me. To see me."  _And perhaps for once,_ he thought,  _she finally has._

"She will come to speak with him again, as is proper. She is his mother."

And so she did come. First very often, then less so once she felt that she could entrust him to Chiron and Patroclus' influence. It was like before, she would ask how he was and if he liked what he was learning, how he was growing in his studies. He often bragged of anything new he learned to see her puff with pride at his accomplishments. He knew she must go to the other nymphs and speak of him and all he was learning, that he was most assuredly going to be a great hero before long. They did not have children as she did, would never know of the things she spoke of. He liked to give her such satisfaction.

Patroclus did not say much about her presence, but he knew his friend liked it best when she was not around.

\--

Achilles decided that he very much liked winter. Their river was shallow enough that it froze over solid and they could walk on it, slipping and sliding and clinging to one another and the branches of the trees so they would not fall. They used the deeper areas where the ice was thinner to fish for fresh meat when they became sick of what they had dried and salted. 

Achilles loved the snow more than he had thought. He loved burying his hands and feet in the cold substance, similar to sand but much lighter. Sometimes the flakes were small and fast, other times fat and lazy and drifting slowly from the sky before landing on their tongues or foreheads with a plop. They would stay buried in the cold snow as long as they could stand it, then run back to the warmth of the fire and the cave and hide under their piles of furs for warmth, talking of what they would do the next time they ventured back to the snow.

Chiron taught them how to count down until spring on the cave wall. After 50 days, he said that the ice would crack and spring would begin to come. Achilles had not known what he meant until the morning when it sounded as if one of the great trees had been struck in half by a lightning bolt and the river had cracked down the middle.

Spring on the mountain meant watching the first shoots of grass pushing up through the brown soil and animals beginning to venture out to replenish their stores of food. It was wonderful to watch the world come back to life before his eyes, and it filled him with a renewed energy and excitement.

It was one of those mornings, with the renewal of life and warmth coursing through him, that he asked Chiron to teach them to fight. Perhaps he had missed the way a sword felt in his hand, heavy and firm and comforting. Perhaps it was the way he had felt that morning when Patroclus had hung away their winter furs and Achilles had seen for the first time the hardness of the muscle that had been growing and firming while hidden from his eyes. Whichever the reason, Chiron had agreed, and they ventured to a clearing further up the ridge and away from their camp.

They performed their drills as asked. Achilles felt rusty after so long without practice. Chiron would occasionally add in a poke or a strike to see how they might react, and he was glad that he could still block them with ease. He felt Chirons eyes heavily upon him and was nervous. He was too unpracticed, too slow. He had missed a step of his drill and knew Chiron must have noticed. When they had finished and drank deeply under the warm sun, he waited to hear what he must do to improve himself.

"Well, what do you think?" Should he keep his arm straighter, or his knees more bent? Chiron never held back a lesson to be taught.

"There is nothing I can teach you. You know all that Heracles knew, and more. You are the greatest warrior of your generation, and all the generations before."

He stated it so matter-of-factly that Achilles felt his face warm. It was one thing to hear such a thing from his parents, whom he was sure would say such things anyway, and another to hear it from the man who had trained the greatest of their heroes.

"Men will hear of your skill, and they will wish for you to fight their wars. What will you answer?"

He had not thought about such a thing so deeply before. "I do not know."

"That is an answer for now. It will not be good enough later."

Achilles knew this. He knew that someday he would have to fight, to take a life that was not that of an animal. He did not want to think of such things then. He realized for the first time that to become a hero, he would have to kill many people. He did not know if he could stomach such a thought.

"What about me?" Patroclus cocked his head to the side curiously, melting some of the tension.

"You will never gain fame from your fighting. Is this surprising to you?"

"No." Patroclus said it very simply and Achilles thought he might laugh at his friend's plainness on the subject.

"Yet it is not beyond you to be a competent soldier. Do you wish to learn this?"

Patroclus seemed to think a moment, looking at the weapons in his hands. "No," he said again.

And that was that.

\--

Summer came quickly after spring and their forest was once again abundant. Achilles turned fourteen in the blazing heat, and he almost did not notice until the messengers from his father came. They tramped through the forest indelicately, blaring horns and scaring away all game, trampling berries and roots they might have eaten under foot. He knew how strange they must look to them, but he did not feel embarrassed. He felt embarrassed for the men standing before them in palace garb in the middle of a forest, panting from the thickness of their clothing in the stifling heat. He felt completely natural in his patched and faded tunic, greeting them.

The gifts were good ones, things his father knew he would wish for. Replacement strings for his beloved lyre, new and larger tunics to replace theirs that seemed to shrink by the day from the lengthening of their bodies and many washes. He held the bow that had been gifted to him as well, feeling the iron tips to the arrows. It was strange to not be holding one he had made himself, one that he knew as well as he knew himself from hours of careful carving and polishing with oils.

Other gifts were less useful and he wondered what his father had been thinking. Cloaks inlaid with gold, a belt of jewels so heavy he would sink to the bottom of the river should he wear it and try to swim.

They tossed the belt aside, joking that they might use it to weigh down their fish traps, and tore up the useless cloaks and horse blankets for compresses and bandages and cleaning cloths. He thought of what the villagers might say if they saw a goat with a bandage of gold wandering the mountains. Perhaps it would send the message that they would not need such things and they could send fewer the next year.

As he lay with Patroclus later that day, Chiron off making room for their new items in their little mountain home, it struck him how much time had already passed on the mountain. Their old life seemed so small and far away in comparison.

"It has been almost a year since we came."

"It does not feel so long," came his friends' sleepy response as they watched the sky together.

He turned to face Patroclus then, lying on his stomach. The grass tickled his chin. "Do you miss the palace?"

"No," was the simple reply, a small smile on his lips. Achilles looked away from his friends' mouth and instead at the sky once again.

"I don't either. I thought I might, but I don't."

Days and weeks and months passed, and before Achilles knew it, two years as well.


	10. Chapter 10

It was spring, and they were fifteen. Though Achilles loved the winter and the snow, he was glad when the sky opened and they began to be bathed in warm rains rather than cold showers of ice. Sometimes he might drag Patroclus out of their cave to stand outside and soak in the warm water falling from the skies, warm as a drawn bath from the heavens. Patroclus happily joined him each time he asked, twirling in the mud and leaves right next to Achilles, laughing at being bare once again without furs.

They took their first bath in the river soon after, once all the ice had been washed downstream and they were left with the sun warmed water to soak themselves in finally, all thoughts of shivering and furs discarded along with their tunics on the rocks. The day had been long, filled with running and hunting and swimming laps to stretch their underused muscles. He stretched every bit of himself that he could, glorifying in the suns rays upon his body, burning away the last of the cold. Patroclus was looking at him, this he knew. Patroclus often looked at him, though. He had learned not to fill with hope at the glances.

"You look older," he said, breaking the silence. Achilles looked over to his friend, a little surprised. He had not thought about his appearance in so long, it had not occurred to him that he might have changed in their two years together with Chiron.

"I do?"

"Yes," he said with conviction. "Do I?"

He cocked his head, looking his friend over. "Come here." He tried to keep himself under control as he gave Patroclus' body a long look. He was indeed different from the young boy who raced up the mountain to join him. "Yes."

"How? A lot?"

Achilles tried to pay attention to all of his friend to find what exactly it was that was so different. There was the surety in his movements, the confidence in his eyes as he stalked an animal or wrestled with Achilles. The fear and meekness had long left, and been replaced with the sure stance of manhood. But he could not put such a change into words as he wanted to.

"Your face is different," he decided to say. And it was, it had changed much in the years but still looked like him.

"Where?"

He reached up a tentative hand, fingertips skimming the newly firm jaw. "Here. Your face is wider than it once was." Patroclus' hand followed, touching where Achilles' fingers had been a moment ago, eyes thoughtful. Carefully, fearfully, he took Patroclus' hand and traced it along his collarbone where the muscles of his chest liked to move when he stretched each morning or when he drew a bow. "You are wider here also." He felt breathless and gave thanks that his hands did not tremble. "And this." He touched a single finger to the newly formed bump at that so soft throat, feeling it move under his finger as Patroclus swallowed, eyes never leaving Achilles' face.

"Where else?" His friend sounded as breathless as he felt.

Bravely, he let his finger move lower, pointing to the new dark hair that lead a path south from his navel. 

"That's enough," Patroclus said, moving back a bit, looking flustered. Achilles felt this as a little private victory, that he could fluster Patroclus in such a way. Patroclus sat in the grass to dry himself and Achilles continued stretching, trying not to let Patroclus see the smile on his face as he did so. He did not allow himself to join him in the sun until he felt confident that it would not give him away. They sat together in comfortable silence for some time, soaking in the warm sun and promise of a new year of warmth and happiness together.

"You would not be displeased, I think. With how you look now."

Patroclus smiled and ducked his head a little and Achilles lay back, closing his eyes and trying to hide the small jolts of joy sent through him at every smile.

\--

Achilles' sixteenth birthday was coming. He would fully be considered a mansoon, with all its responsibilities and rights. He could fight, he could rule. 

He could take a wife. He would be expected to. Make heirs, continue the family line, create more children with the blood of gods in their veins. But every time he thought of his future, of lying beside someone beneath blankets, arms and legs tangled, they were not the legs of a woman he saw. These legs were dark and muscled, and one had a distinctive scar on the knee. He could never imagine any of the palace girls in that bed, in his arms, touching his chest, his mouth.

He avoided the subject just as much now as he did in the palace, trying to think of it as little as possible. He did not wish to think on his future with someone he did not love, could not yearns for as he should. For now, there was Patroclus sleeping beside him in the cave and endless days of swimming and hunting and ignoring obligation. He wanted to be with Patroclus all day, every day, to soak up all of this that he could while they were together, to preserve every moment just as he tried to preserve the sunshine in his bones for the coming winter. But he knew it was just as futile. Winter always came, no matter how much sun there seemed to be in the height of summer.

And Patroclus began to avoid him. He would be gone by the time Achilles woke many mornings, as if he could not get away from Achilles soon enough. Perhaps he was repelled, could see the way Achilles felt and could not bear to be beside him in that warm enclosed space. Or he would not watch when Achilles practiced his drills, wandering away with a flute he knew Patroclus did not care about playing as if he needed a thread bare excuse to leave, no longer interested, no longer dazzled. Patroclus was bored with him, Achilles was losing him. Once when he had noticed Patroclus had left him alone again, he had thrown a spear so far that he could not hope to retrieve it, crying out angrily. Later, he told Chiron that it had broken against a rock and not spoken of it again.

Achilles always asked where Patroclus went, and he always gestured vaguely away and kept moving, looking shameful, as if he did feel badly for leaving him so alone. But this did not stop him from spending more time away from him. He did not even have a reason to be away from Achilles, he simply needed to be away. Perhaps he regretted coming at all, wished to be away and back in the palace rather than trapped with no one but Achilles and their teacher. Perhaps he deserved it, for thinking he could sustain his friend with himself alone. But it still hurt. 

\--

Some days, however, his fears felt so far away he could not imagine that Patroclus had grown bored of him. He could not see the disinterest in those lively eyes, nor a need to escape from his presence. They still played as they always had, wrestling and pouncing on one another in the water, pushing and tugging and tossing, or pulling themselves into the low branches and kicking with their feet, trying to dislodge the other. Out of nowhere one day during such a game, Patroclus had launched himself at Achilles, grabbing onto his torso and pulling him down, turning over and over as they grappled beneath the surface, bubbles flowing form their mouths as they laughed out their reserves of breath.

They threw themselves above the water for air and then Achilles went after him again, dragging them down and up and down again, hands sliding over one another as they wrestled for a hold. Finally, exhausted and sore from the pounding of the rocks and the water, they dragged themselves to the warm rocks, panting and giggling and flicking water at one another half heartedly. Water rolled off them in shining beads, and he thought Patroclus looked as if he were embedded with a thousand glistening diamonds, or perhaps the heavens themselves had fallen to decorate his skin, preferring its warmth and depth to the emptiness of the sky. He did not blame them, he often wished to do the same.

\--

The morning of his sixteenth birthday, he woke alone. He lay by himself for some time, having hoped Patroclus would at least choose this day to not leave him. He had hoped they could talk, lying with their faces inches from the other and whispering about the day and their future, what this new birthday meant. It was what they had done on each of Patroclus' birthdays, Achilles so excited to celebrate such a day with his friend. Perhaps it did not hold the same meaning to him as it did to Achilles. The thought saddened him.

Soon, he could not lay any longer and joined Chiron outside the cave.

"Wishes of good will are in order, Achilles. You are now sixteen years old, a man nearly grown."

"I am." He nodded respectfully to the centaur and assisted him with breakfast.

"Patroclus has been talking of it for some time now. I believe he has gone to fetch something for you."

Chiron always saw more than Achilles gave him credit for, must have noticed how he worried of his friend losing interest and knew how best to fix it. He tried to act as if he were not terribly happy at the idea of Patroclus leaving for a gift and not to be away from him. He should have known he would not, not on this of all days. Patroclus would not do such a thing.

"Speaking of gifts, young prince." He handed a beautiful box to Achilles, a gift from his father he could tell. But he could not think of it now, not when he was thinking of what Patroclus might have thought he'd like. His friend who was so full of surprises would surely not disappoint. He set the box aside and busied himself with nothing as he waited, trying to quell his excitement.

His head snapped up at the sound of a twig cracking and Patroclus emerged at the edge of the clearing, a bowl of freshly ripened figs in his hand. Achilles leapt up, bounding over to his friend and picking out a fig to eat from the bowl, biting into the perfectly ripened fruit with glee. Patroclus pulled them down to sit and they stuffed themselves on the treasure before them as breakfast, Chiron deciding not to admonish them for such a feast on his birthday. Achilles thought perhaps it was the best gift he could be given, to share such a perfect little thing with his favorite person of all.

They opened the present from his father together and found much as he had been given before of tunics and strings, but also now a rich cloak, the cloak of a prince grown to manhood, dyed the deep purple of royalty. He ran his fingers over it, smiling. He imagined himself wearing it before a troupe of soldiers, as if he truly belonged there to lead them. His future seemed so close now, it all happening so fast. Some parts were better than others, at least.

Then Chiron gave his usual practical gifts. A sturdy new hiking staff, carefully carved, and a new hunting knife for his belt, sharpened to easy lethality. Then Patroclus offered yet another gift he had not expected. It was a small and wonderfully delicate carving of a boy playing a lyre and singing, his face exultant.

_ Me, he has made me. _

"It's you," Patroclus said, smiling widely and sitting at the edge of his seat, watching Achilles' face. Achilles swallowed thickly, trying to quell the surge of emotion, the tears thickening the back of his throat at the happiness this brought him.

He looked to his friends wonderful, handsome, beautiful face. "I know."

\--

He met with his mother not long after to celebrate his birthday when it could be just the two of them and no interruptions. She had held his face in her cool hands, inspecting him as she did every year. He knew she resented his aging, the signs of mortality, but also coveted the strength that was growing in him with each year, bringing him closer to his destiny.

"You have grown strong."

"Yes, Mother." 

She touched his hair, his neck, his shoulders, as if he were a delicate and precious thing made of the thinnest spun glass. She smiled then, a true and rare smile without mirth. She was pleased with him.

"Will you join me in the caves below the sea soon, my treasure?"

He shook his head as he always did, as he knew she expected. "I cannot yet, Mother. I must at least finish training with Chiron."

"You have been with him for a very long time, Achilles. What is there left for you to learn?"

"Much about the world of men," he assured her. "I have learned to be a boy, now I must learn to be a king and a soldier. Soon, Mother. I will leave soon, but not yet."

She nodded at this, satisfied, then they began their usual ritual. She asked for every detail of what he was up to and he gave them, omitting Patroclus from much of it. She could not know how he doted on his friend as he was specifically not supposed to. He could not risk her interfering again.

She soon turned to go once they had finished, but he stepped forward, stopping her.

"Mother?"

"Yes, my son?"

"Do you- Why do you ask what I am doing? Do you not watch me here?"

Her eyes watched him, wary of a trap. "No," she said slowly. "I cannot see this far from the sea. Why do you ask such things?"

He shrugged as if it were just a casual question. "I simply wondered, Mother. I did not know how far your powers stretched."

She narrowed her eyes slightly but nodded again, leaving. He knew she was not happy that he had asked, had seen past his thin ruse, but he could not think of such things. She could not see him. She could not see them.

_ She cannot see us here. _

He ran back to Patroclus and Chiron, stopping just outside the clearing and collecting himself, taking a deep breath. He could not make such a thing about it, he had to pretend nothing was different. He must handle this delicately, lest he ruin it with his impatience.

He played his lyre for them as he always did, Patroclus relaxing beside him. He could not make himself relax like that, was too full of nervous energy. He was going to be taking a big risk tonight. He had gone over what he might say a hundred times in his head but it never sounded right. He could not imagine himself saying such things out loud.

Chiron yawned, and Achilles decided to act more on impulse and less on thought. It would have to happen now if he were to escape his nerves.

"Are you weary, Chiron?"

"I am."

"Then we will leave you to rest." He quickly rose and bid his teacher goodnight, moving to the cave to wash himself, his fingers tingling with nervous energy, his chest feeling as if it were filled with a ball of lightning where his heart should be, ready to explode. He knew he was acting strangely, that they would notice, but he could not calm himself any more than this.

He was in bed in a record time, waiting for his friend to return. Patroclus washed himself slowly, taking his time. Each moment seemed to last a century that he lay there, watching his silent friend.

"You didn't ask me about my mother's visit yet," he offered.

"How is she?"

"She is well."

"Good." Patroclus lifted a handful of water to his face, washing away the soap they had made together from olives. He watched the beads slide over his lips and down his chin, dripping onto his exposed chest. He felt his breath hitch a little, his resolve strengthening and wavering all at once. He could not do this. He had to do this. He could not live in a place of in-between any longer. He had to know, once and for all.

"She says she cannot see us here." There it was. Now he had to see how Patroclus reacted. If he did not seem interested or to care, Achilles would stop and would not try again, would never push his friend. But if he seemed to care, seemed happy that they were shaded from prying eyes...

Patroclus was looking at him. "What do you mean?"

"She says- I asked her if she watches us here. She says she does not." His heart had never beat so fast. He thought if you pressed an ear to his chest, you would merely hear a constant hum.

"Oh."

"I wished to tell you. Because-" Oh gods, could he do this? "I thought you would wish to know. She- She was not pleased that I asked her."

"She was not pleased." Patroclus spoke so softly he might have missed it. He put down the cloth slowly, then moved to the bed, beside Achilles, lifting the covers and sliding in beside him. Achilles could not look at him, did not dare move.

"Are you- Pleased with her answer?"

_ I am pleased with that answer. _

"Yes," he said.

They lay together quietly, neither daring to speak. The small space between them had never felt so vast. Achilles felt so lost, so afraid he did not know what he was doing, was for once so completely unsure of himself. He hated being vulnerable, but could not help it. Patroclus was the only one he could be so vulnerable with. He looked at the painted stars above them, trying to still his breath.

He turned over to his side, saw Patroclus' eyes closed. Perhaps he was sleeping. Perhaps he did not care. But then those brilliant eyes opened and he turned to face Achilles, and oh he could not breath. He could not think. Patroclus was looking at him in such a way that he could not put two words together even if he wished to think.

He leaned forward, and Patroclus did not move away from him. His mouth opened beneath his as he pressed their lips together, warm hands came to his waist, pulling him closer, and he felt he might fly away in every direction at once. The plush mouth moved from beneath his own with a sigh and traveled to his neck, his chest, everywhere Achilles had dreamed of being touched. He swelled, expanded, flew to heights he did not think he could ever reach. He pressed closer, firmer, trying to move them as close together as possible. Patroclus wanted him. Patroclus liked him. Patroclus was kissing him, holding him, touching him just there and oh he could not think-

And then Patroclus' fingers were lower, taking him in his warm, broad hand, stroking him gently, nervously, looking to him for validation. He could not speak for an answer, could only gasp and and try to keep himself under control. He moved against him, pressing closer, hearing the small gasp of pleasure in return as he moved them together, the friction heating between them as he moved faster. He pressed his mouth everywhere he could reach, tasting the olive soap on his skin. He could not get enough, could not reach enough of him at once. His hands grasped and pulled and smoothed and worshiped as he slid against his friend, his lover, his everything. 

Their blankets twisted and he tossed them aside, baring the length of his friends' beautiful body to the moonlight reflecting around them. His eyes drank in every inch of him now that he could stare unabashedly, and oh it was wonderful. He held Patroclus' face in his hands, staring in wonder before letting them slide down his neck, over his thick chest and muscled belly, then lower still. He stroked slowly, carefully, wanting to savor each moment, each look on that beautiful face. The bite of that plump lower lip, that soft gasp of pleasure, the way his hips moved up into Achilles' hands, begging for Achilles to give him more and he wanted to, he wanted to give him everything.

Patroclus pulled him down into a fervent kiss, gasping and gripping at him as they slid harder against one another, Achilles unable to keep his cries inside. He was shaking, shaking, and holding onto Patroclus as tightly as he could, then tighter still, lavishing his shoulder with his mouth, digging his nails into the sturdy dark back.

_ "Achilles..." _ The soft whisper tore through him, destroyed everything in its path. Patroclus pulled at his hair, buried his fingers in it. Achilles held tighter, pressed his face to his neck and gasped Patroclus' name over and over, unable to think of anything else but this man who held him.  _"Do not stop."_

_ I will not. I never shall again. _ He pressed his hand to Patroclus and moved it against him until a cry split the air and he arched up, pressing against Achilles, clinging to his arms, and Achilles felt such pride in bringing about that wonderful sound, those wonderful feelings from deep within him.

But Patroclus did not stop there. He kept moving, moved a hand down, and back, and oh that was new, that was wonderful. He closed his eyes, felt them nearly roll back into his head at those thick fingers moving in and out of him rhythmically. He had never thought of such a thing, had never even imagined it in his deepest fantasies as he lay beside this firm body each night. The fingers did not stop, simply grew firmer and more urgent, pushing Achilles to the edge over and over and he could think of nothing but this wonderful sensation. 

Then he could not control himself, could not keep it within himself any longer and let out a cry as a wave of please burst within him, filling him to overflowing. His fingers dug into Patroclus, then relaxed as he fell back against his chest, gasping for breath, Patroclus panting along with him.

They caught their breath then moved apart, Achilles feeling as if he had been disassembled then put back together again better than ever. They looked into each others eyes, searching. Patroclus looked so small, so afraid of his reaction, as if this were not the greatest night of Achilles' life, as if this were not all that he had wished for the past three years.

"I did not think-" He could not say it, could not put all his hopes into the proper words.  _I did not think you could love me. I did not think I could be enough for you to stay. You are the earth, the sky, the sun and the stars and I cannot fathom all that you are, all that you mean to me._

"What?" His voice was so gentle Achilles wanted kiss him again, a thousand times more.

"I did not think that we would ever-"  _I did not think that we could ever. I thought the world could not allow such happiness to exist within one person._

"I did not think so either."

Worry gnawed at his insides. Did he regret what they did? Did he not feel as Achilles did?

"Are you sorry?"

"I am not." The answer was sure, immediate.

"I am not either."  _I could never be sorry about this, I could never regret you. I never wish to be parted from you, ever. For all my life and beyond to the end of all the world, I will never be parted from your side again._

And Patroclus was looking at him again in that way that made him feel as if he were made of sunlight, lighter than air and brimming with something he could not name, could never find a word for the magnitude of what he felt.

And Patroclus, by the greatest of impossibilities, was looking at him as if he truly felt the same as Achilles. He took Patroclus' hand in his, held it firmly as if he were never to let it go again.

"Patroclus."

\--

Achilles woke slowly, lazily, filled with warmth. They had begun again after their moment of tenderness, slower that time, and Achilles had nearly melted into Patroclus' arms after that. He had heard the boys of the palace speak of doing things like this and had never thought it could be as good as they said, but now he thought they did not know a thing about what they were talking about. A pretty girl you could grab anywhere in the palace was one thing, but to be with someone he so loved, after working so hard and worrying so long, felt like nothing short of the greatest of miracles ever to come to man. They had been slower, explored every inch of each other with hands and mouths and caresses, Achilles wanting all of Patroclus in every way, all at once. He could never get close enough, could never hold firm enough or kiss passionately enough. But they had tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow to learn and gain skill in pleasuring the other. 

His hand rested on Patroclus' stomach, the rest of him nestled as close as he could be after years of leaving that small gap between their bodies. Patroclus too was awake and he smiled, reaching for his hand to hold against his own, to feel the soft beat of his heart against his own pulse. They watched one another silently, drinking each other in, until Chiron called them to take the day. They ate furiously, and Achilles found he was very hungry after their night, then escaped to the river together to bathe off the night before. Now he could watch Patroclus all that he wished, and be watched just as much. He could watch the muscles of his chest as he lifted his arms above his head, watch his thighs as he swam and walked and sat beside him in a way he had always wished he could before, but never dared.

Laying on the warm rocks, he reached for Patroclus and Patroclus reached for him. He mapped new terrain to commit to memory. Hills and valleys and expanses he traced first with his hands, then his mouth, listening to the hitch and sighs coming from Patroclus as he did so. There was no world outside of this, there could be no world beyond his mouth on Patroclus' stomach and Patroclus' fingers in his hair. It was impossible for it to go on when all the happiness it had ever known now lived inside him.

\--

"Do you think he will be angry?"

He was laying with his head in Patroclus' lap, their fingers playing with one another as they enjoyed the solitude of their private olive grove. The air smelled clean and earthy, just as Patroclus always did.

He reached his hand up, tracing his fingers along Patroclus' collarbone, still lost in the wonder that was touching him whenever he pleased. "I don't think he will be."

"But he might. Surely he must know by now. Should we say something?"

He slid his hand behind Patroclus' neck, brushing his fingers on the soft baby hair that grew there. "If you like."

"You don't think he will be angry?" This was Patroclus' greatest fear, anger from those he cared for. Achilles wished he could tell him he would protect him from any anger, any threats against him. But that was not what he needed to hear.

Would Chiron be angry? He did not think so. He did not think you could live so long and have many things to be angry at.

"I don't know. Does it matter?" He cupped Patroclus' cheek, looking into the depths of those wonderful brown eyes. "I would not stop." Nothing could stop him, not now that he had learned what such happiness could be like. There was nothing greater than this.

"But he could tell your father.  _He_ might be angry."

Achilles could not imagine such a thing as his father being angry at him, and certainly not for loving their Skops. Was this not what he wanted, for him to find a companion that was the other half to his own self?

"So what if he is?"

Patroclus stroked his hair, watching him, voice lowering slightly. "What about your mother?"

"What could she do? Kidnap me?" He looked up at Patroclus, ruffled by the breeze and his own careless hands, safe with him in this sunlit grove. He could not imagine that anything could happen to them while they were there. "Do you care if they are angry?"

He knew the answer, knew how Patroclus feared anyone being angry at him. But he also knew he wished to be brave, to not show such fear.

"No."

He smiled at this. "Good."

Patroclus stroked his hair and Achilles closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling of those gentle fingers at his temples. He wanted life to be like this, always. Him and Patroclus and nothing else in the world but their love. He could not believe that he had such promise for his future here in his hands, within reach. The chance to be a hero, to claim untold glory, to perhaps pass eternally into legend, and all of it with Patroclus beside him. He could see nothing that could stop him, that could stop them. It had all finally come together, every piece of the puzzle in its perfect place.

He opened his eyes then, gazing up at Patroclus. A thought occurred to him just then as he looked up at those adoring eyes.

"Name one hero who was happy."

Patroclus sat back a little, thinking a moment. They had heard of the madness of Heracles, of Jason losing his wife and children to murder, even Icarus died just after receiving the promise of freedom. Their tales were courageous, but never with happy endings.

"You can't." He sat up, leaning close.  


"I can't."

"I know. They never let you be famous  _and_ happy." He took Patroclus' hand, smiling conspiratorially. "I'll tell you a secret."

"Tell me." 

"I'm going to be the first." He pressed their palms together, pulses beating against each other in a beautiful rhythm. "Swear it."

"Why me?"

"Because you're the reason. Swear it." 

"I swear it," he whispered, squeezing their joined hands tightly.  


"I swear it," Achilles echoed, binding the oath. They would be happy, always. Nothing could stop them. He grinned, wanted to throw his arms around Patroclus and tell this beautiful boy he loved him a hundred times, a thousand. It would never be enough, but it could be close. "I feel like I could eat the world raw."

It was their last moment of silence, of innocence, of purity. The words still lingered on his lips as a trumpet blew somewhere within the trees, too close for comfort. 

He leapt to his feet and listened, dagger in hand. Perhaps it was soldiers from an enemy state, come to kill the prince and anyone else they could find. He would not let them, would not let any hands fall on himself or Patroclus. Patroclus held a knife as well but Achilles made sure he was between him and the sound, trusting himself more than his gentle friend. 

The trumpet came again along with the sound of clumsy feet. He moved towards it warily.

Then came a voice, high and screeching as it attempted to reach as far as possible.

"Prince Achilles! Achilles! I am here for Achilles!"

He stood still, frowning. It was not his birthday, no one should have come for them.

"From your father," came Patroclus' whisper. 

He nodded but did not answer, shifting the daggers weight. Moments ago he had been ready to kill this man for himself and Patroclus. Lightning sang through his veins as he tried to slow his heart. Would it be like this when he was a warrior? Ready to kill at a moments notice?

"We are here!" Patroclus called, as Achilles did not open his mouth to help the man find them. 

"Where?"

"Can you follow me voice?"

They called for him and he followed, poorly and with great effort. It took great time before he emerged, scratched and sweating profusely and gasping in the heat of his thick palace clothing. Achilles kept a hold of his knife, keeping between him and Patroclus still. 

"Yes?"

"Your father summons you. There is urgent business at home."

Had something happened? Was his father sick? Patroclus did not breath behind him.

"What sort of business?"

The messenger gasped, still regaining his breath and composure. "My lord, your pardon, I do not know all of it. Messengers came to Peleus from Mycenae with news. Your father plans to speak tonight to the people, and wishes you to be there. I have horses for you below."

So his father was alright, but they were to leave immediately. There would be no chance to argue or bide time.

"Patroclus and I will need to pack our things," he said finally. He had no choice.

They left the man behind as they made their way to the cave, wondering what it could be. He touched Patroclus' lower back, trying to calm his nerves.

"Whatever it is, we'll only be gone for a night or two," he promised. Perhaps it was simply a party that his father wished to show his god son off as he often did, now nearly a man. He would be happy to oblige, they would be back soon enough.

Chiron did not seem pleased as they approached. "I heard the shouts."

"My father has summoned me home, just for tonight. I expect we will be back soon." What could his father need for more than a few days at most?

"I see," was his response. He helped them gather their things, insisting they pack for more than a few days, just in case. Achilles thought it was unnecessary but did as he was told. They had few things anyway, it could not hurt. He took the statue Patroclus had carved for him, not wanting to be parted from it, as well as his lyre.

When they said their goodbyes, he embraced Chiron. He knew the man was not one for such tenderness, but he had been like a father these past three years and he wished to show thanks as he had not before.

"Achilles." He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do you remember when I asked you what you would do when men wanted you to fight?"

"Yes."

"You should consider your answer." He stepped back so Patroclus could have his turn at a goodbye, wondering if Chiron knew of things he did not. He still hoped to return soon, he was not yet ready to leave forever.

"We will be back soon," he promised their teacher when he released Patroclus.

"I will look for you," he promised in return.

They left with the messenger the, riding astride the horses provided for them. It felt strange to move without his own feet, to be carried through the trees rather than to run through them. He looked to wave a last goodbye, but the cave was already gone from view. He looked to Patroclus, then towards home.


	11. Chapter 11

Achilles did not know what to expect as they entered within the palace walls. Perhaps his father waiting for him, or maybe his father along with Phoinix and a few visiting noblemen. He did not expect the guard to announce their arrival with a cry, followed by trumpet blares echoing around them, proclaiming the return of the crown prince to his home to all who could hear.

Standing at the entrance to his old home was his father and his mother, and a multitude of guards. The guards looked nervous, his mother looked troubled as ever, and his father seemed to swell with pride at the sight of his son, now grown into the bones and flesh of a man.

"Your mother," Patroclus whispered behind him. Achilles had to admit he was just as worried by his mothers presence, but for different reasons. He could not imagine what event could have brought his mother and father to be in the same place for so long. Simply his coming home for a night would not be enough, there had to be a greater reason that he had not yet been told.

He swung easily from his horse and approached his parents. He wished to embrace his father after so long apart, but it was his mother who reached him first, engulfing him in her cool arms, roughened slightly like sand rubbed rock.

"Son of my womb, flesh of my flesh, Achilles," she said, loud enough for all around them to hear. "Be welcome home."

He embraced her back, but warily. This was not for him, she was maneuvering herself into position as his primary guardian and he did not know why, but her motives worried him even more. What could be happening that she felt she needed to assert her dominance even more than was already evident?

"Thank you, Mother," was all he said. He turned next to his father, who seemed so old and tired now that he was close enough to see. The years were never as kind on him as he deserved.

"Be welcome, son." He embraced Achilles, and Achilles held on tightly, reveling in the comfort of his fathers hug for the first time in three years. Then, "And be welcome, Patroclus."

Patroclus bowed to Peleus, looking uneasy now that they were back within palace walls and under palace scrutiny once again. Achilles quickly cleared his throat.

"What is the news, Father?"

"I have not announced it, and I do not mean to until everyone is gathered. We were waiting on you. Come and let us begin." He was lead inside the palace, Patroclus close by his side and his mother close behind them all. He could feel her eyes always on him, as if she were waiting for something. He had never seen her so on edge and it made him very uneasy. Gods were not moved to such anxieties over nothing, especially not her.

It was strange to walk like this, the four of them. He could only hear two pairs of feet on the cool marble, that of Patroclus and his father. He and his mother made no sound as they crossed through the halls. He did not remember this happening in his life before living on Pelion, but then he had never walked through his fathers halls with his mother before. He felt strangely separate from the others around him, even his father and lover. He and his mother were strange things, partially alive and not meant for places such as this that were so filled with life.

They came to their large dining hall, empty but not. No one was dining, but servants were hurrying about in every direction making preparations for what would surely be a grand feast, packing the hall to bursting. At the front was a table set for their royal family. He frowned, seeing only three chairs.

"Father, I do not see a place for Patroclus." Patroclus was his sworn companion who had climbed a mountain and braved the training of heroes to be by his side, he would not have him sitting among the soldiers as if he were nothing to Achilles. He was a former prince and a therapon to a half god and he would be treated with respect.

"Achilles," came his whisper at Achilles' shoulder, trying to save face in front of his mother. But he would not hear it, not any longer. He was tired of doing as he was told because it was the polite place of a child.

"Patroclus is my sworn companion. His place is beside me."

His mothers face was blank but he could see fury flash within their depths for a moment. His father seemed to not care where Patroclus sat, with larger things on his mind.

"Very well." A fourth place was set and they sat down, Patroclus staying close to Achilles and hiding from his mother.

"She'll hate me now."

"She already hates you."

Patroclus paused a moment. "Why has she come?" He was wondering the same things, then. It was not just Achilles who thought this whole set up to be terribly unusual. It had to be something big to bring his mother back to the place of her captivity all those years ago.

"I do not know. It is strange. I have not seen them together since I was a boy."

"Chiron thinks the news will be war."

Yes, he had noticed that as well. But what was so special about war? Kings were always going to war with one another when they felt greedy, it was nothing new.

"But there is always war in Mycenae. I do not see why we should have been called."

His father sat down at his place and the horn was blown to signal the start of the meal. He expected the usual wait, the trickle of men filing in as they pleased as they finished drills and talked amongst themselves. Perhaps he might see some of the boys he used to spend meals with and ask them how their time has been spent while he was away. But this day it seemed t be instantaneous, the room immediately filled with more men than he had ever seen at one time, and none seemed comfortable or focused on the large meal at hand, grand as it was. They, like everyone else Achilles had come across since returning home, seemed to be waiting for something.

His father stood and silence fell.

"I have received word from Mycenae, from the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus." Patroclus seemed frozen in his place, barely breathing. Achilles pressed against him lightly, trying to soothe his fears. War would not be so bad, he could easily say no.

"There has been a crime. The wife of Menelaus, Queen Helen, has been abducted from the palace in Sparta."

He had not heard that name in some time. He remembered vaguely being beside his father as he was told of the woman's hand being open for marriage, remembered her fabled beauty, but knew nothing more. She must be quite the woman for a king to risk starting a war to abduct her.

"Menelaus welcomed an embassy sent from King Priam of Troy. At its head was Priam's son, the prince Paris, and it is he who is responsible. He stole the queen of Sparta from her bed chamber while the king slept."

Well that figured. Trust an Easterner in your house and you're bound to find a few things missing and nothing left behind but a sickly perfumed mist. But to take a queen, this he had not heard of outside stories.

"Agamemnon and Mycenae appeal to the men of Hellas to sail to the kingdom of Priam for her rescue. Troy is rich and will be easily taken, they say. All who fight will come home wealthy and renowned."

Ah, so that was the heart of the matter. The safety of a Spartan queen was of little interest outside of Sparta, but a war that could promise riches enough for even the lowest foot soldier was sure to bring in such interest as was before them, staring wide eyed as they listened to his father speak. Every king who felt his fame dwindling would want to send men, would want to have his name written among the victors over Troy.

"They have asked me to send a delegation of men from Phthia, and I have agreed. Though I will not take any man who does not wish to go. And I will not lead the army myself."

"Who will lead it?" asked a faceless voice from the crowd.

"That is not yet determined." He did not see his father look to him, but he knew he must have. Patroclus stiffened beside him, and his mother had made identical gouges in the wood before her. They wanted him to lead an army.

Did he want to lead an army? Yes, the idea had filled his head since he was a boy. But always older, always as a man, trained to fight among men and lead them, with years of experience behind him. He was a fighter, but he was no leader. He had not proven himself at anything yet. When he had always imagined himself as a hero, it was as Perseus and Heracles, fighting monsters and enemies alone or with Patroclus, but not an army with another at his back looking to him to lead. He was not yet a man grown, he could not do as they wished of him.

His father gestured to the closest table. "Lord Phoinix will note the names of all who wish to fight." Men began to rise but he gestured for silence once again. "There is more. Before Helen's betrothal to King Menelaus, she had many suitors. It seems these suitors swore an oath to protect her, whosoever might win her hand. Agamemnon and Menelaus now charge these men to fulfill their oath and bring her back to her rightful husband."

He handed a sheet to a herald, who began listing off names. Patroclus looked as if he would faint and Achilles could not imagine why.

_Antenor._

_Eurypylus._

_Machaon._

Achilles recognized many of the names, most of them that of heroes or friends of heroes who had shared in their perils. He had not known Helen had such a high caliber of suitors.

_Agamemnon._

_Odysseus._

_Ajax._

_Philoctetes._

_Menoitiades._

_No,_ he thought.  _There is a mistake, that cannot be possible._ He looked to Patroclus, whose eyes were frozen forward, looking at no one.

The herald continued but Achilles paid no attention to him.

"Is that you? You were there?" Patroclus had never mentioned such a thing, but perhaps he could not remember. It was so long ago, he could not have been more than perhaps nine, if he had been involved at all. It is possible his father had put his name forward for him. Patroclus did not answer him, simply nodded woodenly. He knew his friend must be imagining going to war with his clumsy skills that he had not practiced in years. He gripped his hand, making Patroclus look at him.

"Listen. It is not your name anymore. Say nothing. We will think what to do. We will ask Chiron." He would not allow Patroclus to be taken to war. He was too small, to slow, he did not want to hurt anyone. He wanted to help people, he could not hurt them. And if he did not fight, then he would surely fall. Achilles would not let that happen. He did not care what anyone said to the contrary, Patroclus was not going off to this war to die.

He did not pay attention to the rest of the names. Eventually the men were dismissed to sign Phoinix's paper. His father turned to them.

"Come. I would speak further with you both."

Achilles turned to bid farewell to his mother, but she was gone. He did not know when she had left. 

\--

They sat in their old places by the fire, as if no time had passed. Achilles refused the offer of wine but Patroclus took it, probably looking to occupy his nervous hands with something other than themselves. His father looked at him. Achilles wondered what he saw.

"I have called you home with the thought that you might wish to lead this army."

He met his fathers gaze. It was so hard to disappoint him after all his years of trying to be as a pleasing of a son as possible, but he could not bend simply because everyone else wished him to.

"I have not finished yet with Chiron."

"You have stayed on Pelion longer than I did, than any hero before."

"That does not mean I must run to help the sons of Atreus every time they lose their wives." Three years ago his father would have laughed, or perhaps smiled and given him a half disapproving look. But three years had gone by and despite their familiar surroundings, things were not as they once were.

"I do not doubt that Menelaus rages at the loss of his wife, but the messenger came from Agamemnon. He has watched Troy grow rich and ripe for years, and now thinks to pluck her. The taking of Troy is a feat worthy of our greatest heroes. There may be much honor to be won from sailing with him."

He wanted to sigh. It seemed that neither of his parents ever truly listened to him unless he said what they wished to hear.

"There will be other wars."

His father looked at him a moment. "What of Patroclus, then? He is called to serve."

"He is no longer the son of Menoitius. He is not bound by the oath." He was glad for his years of truth telling, knowing this would be taken as from his heart rather than from his desperation, which he was trying to hide.

His father did not seem pleased by his answer. "There is some shuffling there."

"I do not think so." He set himself straighter. "The oath was undone when his father disowned him."

From beside him, Patroclus chimed in softly. "I do not wish to go." 

His father looked at them. In theory, it might be easy to send ones princely son off to a grand battle with his oath bound companion, but he knew when his father looked at them he still saw the young boys pressed beside him sleepily as he recounted old tales of heroism. It was not so easy to send his beloved son and Skops to their first war before they were fully men.

"Such a thing is not for me to decide," he said finally. "I will leave it to you." He felt Patroclus relax a little beside him. His father turned his attention fully back to him. "Achilles, men are coming here to speak with you, kings sent by Agamemnon."

"They will ask me to fight." He could hear the ocean outside the walls. He could hear the fire popping in its place and the murmuring of servants outside their door. All so familiar, yet it no longer felt right. As if he had put on an old tunic he had left behind before leaving, none of it seemed to fit him anymore. It was too small, too confining, too reminiscent of older and simpler times he could never go back to.

"They will."

"You wish me to give them audience."

"I do."

He weighed the statement, the implication. "I will not dishonor them, or you. I will hear their reasons. But I say to you that I do not think they will convince me."

"That is also not for me to decide." Achilles felt relief that of all the things that had changed, his fathers mild and detached demeanor had not. He had never forced his son to do anything before, and he would not start now.

Achilles knelt before his father, bowing his head. He felt his fathers hand rest upon his hair, longer now and thicker where it used to finer, the hair of a boy. It was a comfort, to feel its familiar weight once again. He and Patroclus left his father in his chair, staring silently into the fire.

Their room was similar to how he had left it, though cleaner than he had ever kept it. The pallet was also gone, which he did not mind at all. The bed was big enough for two bodies that did not mind pressing close.

They were tense, they were nervous. Patroclus would not be made to fight and he would not allow himself to be made to lead, but nothing felt as settled as he pretended it to be. He told himself he was being silly, that it was over and once he had met with these men, he and Patroclus would go back to their life with Chiron and all would be well. There was no need for the knot of nervousness to stay in the pit of his stomach.

He saw the stiff set of Patroclus' shoulders, the fear that had worked its way into knots in the span of a day. He pulled him into his arms, peppering his shoulder with kisses, pulling their clothes from their warm bodies and sliding beneath their blankets. He let his mouth wander, encouraged to linger anywhere that elicited an especially loud moan from Patroclus, whose hands roamed salaciously over and under him until they were both coiled to bursting.

Once their bodies had fallen against each other, their breathing returning to normal, he pressed close, holding the boy he so dearly loved and whispering into his ear.

"If you have to go, you know I will go with you." And he meant it. He did not wish to fight nor lead, but he would be damned before he let Patroclus go anywhere without Achilles by his side to protect him. With that, he fell asleep, his face pressed to Patroclus' warm neck and still racing pulse.

\--

He woke blearily, his vision clouded, his room darker than it should be. Hadn't the moon been bright that night?

He was moving, but he was not. His body swayed but he felt paralyzed, too heavy to move even a finger. His hair was slick with what felt like seawater, but could not possibly be. Had the ocean risen? Had his room flooded?

 He tried to look for the source of the water but could not manage lifting his head enough. He was surrounded by dark wood, covered in a heavy black blanket up to his neck. A cool hand was pressed to his forehead.

"Shhh," his mother whispered gently. "Sleep now. It shall be over soon. It will be alright, I have taken care of everything."

He wanted to ask what she meant, but the tide of unconsciousness was too strong, and he was pulled back into darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

He woke again as their vessel scraped against rock, coming into port. Whatever power his mother had on him was wearing thin and he was able to move and look around him. He seemed to be below the deck of a grand ship, filled with trunks he was sure contained expensive finery. What purpose did his mother have of bringing him here? He sat up dizzily and found himself in a locked room. Beside him was a chair, and on the chair, a dress. He was wholly confused by the time a knock came to his door.

"Miss?" came the uncertain call of a sailor. His mother appeared before he could answer, holding up a hand and speaking for him.

"My daughter will be out shortly, leave us." He could hear the man run from the door and back up the stairs, so he assumed it was known who she was. No one who made their living on the water would dare anger a sea nymph.

"Daughter?" Achilles managed, still weak from the trip. He could not fathom his mother’s scheme, but he knew he wanted no part of it. He wanted to go back home to say goodbye to his father, then to return to Pelion with Patroclus. No good could come from this.

"As I have said, I have taken care of everything. They will not accept your refusal as an answer, they will not let you alone until you agree to fight, and you must not fight, Achilles. Not in this war. So I have taken us to Scyros, where you shall be hidden among Lycomedes' many foster daughters until the men have left for Troy and you are safe." Her look was filled with zealous passion, an almost desperate look as she spoke.

"I am a prince, Mother, I am free to refuse as I please and I cannot be commanded by my equals."

"You are young, my son. You do not know the ways of men, the things they will say to convince you." She straightened then, finished with the conversation. She turned to adjust the folds of the dress. He looked at it nervously.

"And if I will not do this? If I refuse to wear your dress and act the part of a woman? What happens then?" She could make him do this no more than they could make him fight, he was sure of it.

"If you do not do this, you shall never see him again." She paused, waited for him to understand her words. "If you do all that I ask while you are here, I shall go to him and tell him how to find you."

This drew him short. She could not make him play her part, but she could keep Patroclus from him. He took a deep breath, leveling his gaze at her, wary. "You swear this? If I do as you ask, you shall tell him how to find me, and you shall stop trying to separate us?"

She gazed back coolly, her face impassive. "I swear. Now come, King Lycomedes awaits."

\--

He felt ridiculous. Completely, absolutely ridiculous. He was wearing a dress, his hair was curled, he had been dabbed with perfume and scrubbed within an inch of his life to remove all lingering mountain dirt from his nails.

The king was not waiting for them along the shore as Achilles had expected. Instead, there was a young woman standing on the docks, hair perfectly coifed, head high, flanked by a battalion of girls in matching white dresses, waiting for him. No one seemed to sense that anything was amiss. When he reached the young woman, he made sure to curtsy as best he could, trying to remember how the palace girls placed their feet when they did it. Hopefully the skirts hid any mistake.

“Pyrrha,” the girl said, speaking his new name, her voice regal, important. Or, perhaps, self important. She opened her arms, welcoming him into her embrace with a sisterly benevolence. “Welcome to the foster daughters of Lycomedes. I am Deidameia, daughter of Lycomedes.” She smiled at him, holding him by his shoulders and looking him over. Assessing his beauty he thought, though he wondered if she wanted him to be more beautiful to add to the posterity of the group of women as a whole, or less beautiful so she could always be the center jewel. These were not the politics he had been taught. He embraced her back as much as he could without her feeling the musculature of his chest beneath the dress.

He was brought to a reception hall to stand before the king, and he had to remind himself not to bow as he instinctively wanted to. He hoped his gait was not too harsh, that his footsteps were not too loud or forceful. He tried to pretend he was back in the forest with Patroclus, stalking a deer, trying not to make a sound.

The king was old, older than he had prepared himself for. His daughter was near enough to his own age, and even his father did not look this old. He could not meet the man’s clouded eyes as they never seemed to fully settle on him, but instead trembled as they roamed the air around him.

Princess Deidameia curtsied flawlessly beside him.

“Father,” she said, voice lilting and ringing like a bell in the small hall. She gestured to Achilles, guiding his clouded gaze to where Achilles stood. “May I present the princess Pyrrha, daughter of the great goddess Thetis.” The other girls watched her rapturously. Some were his age, a few a little older, and many younger, still soft and rounded as children. They were all beautiful, but none had immortal blood in their veins as he did.

As he curtsied to the king, his mother close behind, he felt a shift within himself, as if a match had been struck, flaring to life within him. He felt taller, fuller, both lighter and denser. He felt _more_. He did not know how he looked, had not gazed at himself in a mirror, but he could see the faces of the surrounding guards and women as he lifted his own to the king, and he knew what they saw was beautiful. His mother was bringing out the gods blood within him, illuminating him from the inside out. The old kings eyes seemed to find him at last.

“Ah, yes. I see you have brought our newest daughter.” He lifted an ancient hand. “Come here, child.”

Achilles walked forwards, his step not making a sound on the marble floors. He took the man’s cold hand in his own, felt the king relax at the warmth emanating from him. He wondered how much of this was being given to him by his mother, and how much had been within him all along, just waiting to be sparked to life.

The king smiled. “You are quite a beauty, aren’t you? That wonderful hair, like a dancing flame before these old eyes. It will be an honor to welcome you into my house as a child of my heart, if not my blood, as all my daughters are.”

Achilles nodded, his throat tight. This man reminded him so of his father. His gentleness, his kindness. He hated to deceive him, and he missed his own father even more. And Patroclus, gods he missed Patroclus more than anything. He did not know what his friend must be thinking now. He knew he must have noticed he was gone, must be trying to find him. He would not rest until he had. And Achilles could do nothing.

No, he could do something. He could do as his mother asked, and she would reunite them. All would be well, he need only play along a little longer.

He curtsied to the old king again, kissing the weathered hand.

“The honor is mine, my king, to be fostered by one such as you.”

Lycomedes smiled gently. “Deidameia, take good care of our Pyrrha.”

\--

Deidameia showed him to the rooms he would be sharing with the other girls during the days. He had foolishly been imagining the rooms of his father’s foster sons, designed as a military barracks. The women’s rooms were lavish, all with their own room for their beds surrounding a central room where they shared their time when they were not asleep. No military training here. They were taught art and music and poetry, things he could not funnel his ever generating energy into. The sitting room was littered with fabric, spinning wheels, sewing supplies, paints and clay, and bits of clothing and jewelry that had been left out in their haste to meet him. His mother must have worked very quickly to find him a space here.

He was lead to a room and a bed that was free and sat down, trying not to fidget. He did not know what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to act. He was used to being a prince, not a foster child. Gods, he was used to being a boy. He did not know how he was expected to act or not act. He knew only of a life where he had done as he wished, no one had ever truly taught him how to act. They used to simply smile and watch him juggle or toss a spear. There did not seem to be either available here.

The girls introduced themselves to him pleasantly then went about their business. A few began painting, others sewing, some finding things to read. It was all very disconcerting, very quiet. There was none of the jostling and laughter and bawdy comments of the foster sons of Phthia.

He knew they would notice if he did not do something soon. Thankfully, he found a discarded lyre and began plucking away, relaxing as the music began to flow through his fingers, filling the air around him. The notes flowed smoothly, hiding the fear and unease. He did not know how long he could stand to stay here. Hopefully the men left for war soon and Patroclus found him and brought him back to Chiron. Everything would be okay then, he just had to wait.

\--

His mother woke him the fourth night.

“Be silent.” She moved away from him and turned to the door, Deidameia standing there, confused. She seemed to understand her purpose in his rooms as much as he did.

Over the last few days, she had taken him quickly under her wing, teaching him to paint and sew, fixing his hair in the mornings for him when his fingers could not find the right paths. She did not question why he did not know these things, simply taught him.

 “Pyrrha, why-“ but his mother held up a hand before she could finish.

“You have been deceived.”

The princess’ eyes narrowed. “By whom? Who has done this?”

“We have.” His mother lifted her chin. “It is not my daughter who has been living among you, but my son.” She tore the front of Achilles’ dress where he sat, revealing his bare chest. Deidameia lost her careful composure then, her eyes widening.

“I have brought my son here to hide him from the oncoming war. And,” she paused then, looking the girl over one last time before continuing. “And because I am going to make him a husband to you.”

Achilles must have looked as shocked as Deidameia. He wanted to protest, but Deidameia was already nodding fervently.

“Yes, of course goddess.” She lived on a small forgotten island in a small forgotten kingdom, no better husband would be offered to her than a prince, son of a goddess, one who had already proven that he was gifted in beauty and music, their people’s greatest treasures.

Achilles wanted to protest, wanted to dig in his heels and refuse, but he needed to cooperate so his mother would bring Patroclus to him. His heart ached at their separation.

He stood quietly as his mother said the words over them, binding them, still wearing the torn clothing. He hated the way Deidameia looked at him now, no longer as a person but as a prize that she had won, like a necklace that had been presented to her that she wished to show off. He wanted her to see him as she had been before, with that gentle kindness that was so like her father. But things had changed. All the good things seemed to be leaving faster than he could hold onto him these days.

The short ceremony ended without much emotion from him or his mother. He knew this was not what she wanted long term; that she probably had another wife planned for him later, one who did not belong to such an insignifigant piece of land. Another child of a god perhaps, one gifted like himself. Deidameia did not seem to see this. She was grinning, practically bouncing.

“You may tell no one of this,” his mother told her, smothering her happiness like a bucket of water over a fire. “Not now, not while he must stay hidden. When the threat has passed then you may tell all, but not now.”

“How do I know you will keep your word?” Achilles could not believe her boldness. He did not know anyone who would dare speak like that to a goddess. “How do I know you shall not simply take him away once he can leave and I shall never see him again?”

His mother looked at her, her eyes narrowing, her mouth turning to a thin line. “You shall lie with him. You shall be bound together by that as surely as my words and he shall be yours.”

This is what brought Achilles short. He could leave his home, he could be parted from Patroclus, he could be forced to wear a costume and pretend to be what he was not and bind himself from the activities he loved, he could even marry someone he barely knew, but he would not lie with this girl.

“No,” he said, stepping back. “The words are enough, I will not lie with her.”

His mother looked at him, her black eyes emotionless. She spoke so softly he knew only he could hear.

“I will not bring him if you do not do this.”

“I have done all that you have asked,” he hissed back. “Are you yet not satisfied?”

“Do this, and I shall go to him tomorrow. I shall tell him immediately, and he shall come for you.”

“And if I do not? If I leave on a ship and find him myself?”

“I shall stop you. Your waves will bring you only here, the oars will break as they strive to bring you away. I shall hide you away for the rest of your life if you try to leave this place before it is safe.” There was an edge to her words, almost a fear. “But if you do this, I shall tell him you are here, and he may come to you if he wishes.

_He will come, of course he will come. Never doubt my Patroclus, he will always find me._

He swallowed, looking to this girl that was now his wife. He felt sick at the thought of being with her, being with anyone that was not Patroclus. He forced down the revulsion, the fear, and nodded. He had no choice, they had tied his hands with words better than any bindings could have.

He lay on his bed silently and Deidameia moved on top of him. It was not the traditional position of the marriage night, but he could not lie on top of her, could not… Make himself do what he had to while looking down at her. He would grit his teeth and look away and hope it would end soon. Just as his mother had when his father took her.

He dug his nails into the bed as she began to move on him, up and down slowly. He felt her eyes on him, her hands moving over his chest, trying to make him look at her. But he did not look up at her, he kept his eyes on his mother who stood in the shadows of the door as she had been leaving. He would not let her leave, he would make her look him in the eyes as she did this to him. Because the violation was as much from his mother as it was from the girl above him. Thetis, who had raged and cried her anguish at what his father had done to her, was now doing the same to her son, binding him unwillingly for her own gain as Zeus had done to her. She would find no forgiveness from him for this, for as long as he lived he would never forgive this.

He felt violated, he felt crushed. He could hardly breathe through the haze of revulsion. Something so intimate, something that had been between only him and someone he loved was now being used against him to bind his freedom, to chain him even more tightly.

He did not know exactly when it was over, just when the weight had been removed and his new wife was lying beside him, breathing heavily and grinning at him as if she thought he had enjoyed this as much as he had. He closed his eyes.

He wanted desperately to bathe, to run, to leap into the sea and hide beneath the waves and rub himself with the coarse sand until the dirty, greasy feeling had left him. When he opened his eyes again, his mother was gone and his new wife slept by his side, her arm wrapped possessively around his stomach.

\--

Days blurred together. He felt listless, dull. Deidameia had moved him into her rooms, sat him next to her at all meals, used him as a dance partner when they entertained visitors. She even found her way into his bed once more at night, taking him again when he’d had no fight left in him to resist, simply lay there as he had the first time and let her take what she wanted. His days were filled with stillness and boredom. His legs ached from sitting and not running, his fingers itched for something to grip and throw. He couldn’t make music flow from his fingers anymore, there was nowhere for it to come from.

All of this he could have borne, if Patroclus had come. But he had not. Day after day moved by and at every footstep or spare breath he turned hopefully, wanting more than everything to see the windswept dark hair and brilliant eyes, wanted to feel those rough hands on his skin again. He was the greatest fighter that had ever lived, and all he needed was to be held by his dear Patroclus to make everything that had happened right again. He knew if he could just see him, everything else would fall away.

But he hadn’t come. Why hadn’t he come? He knew Achilles was missing, he knew where he was, what was keeping him away? He couldn’t have chosen to abandon him, could he? No he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he’d never abandon him like this. Patroclus loved him, he _loved_ him, Achilles knew he did, he wouldn’t just leave him.

And yet there Achilles sat, day after day, alone. He ached from the loneliness, but more from the loss; the loss of Patroclus and half of himself, as if he had been cut in half when his mother took him away and half of his heart still lay far away from him, unreachable.

Another evening came, and Deidameia came to him and the rest of the women where they sat in their rooms. He had been watching a younger girl paint a sunset, not really paying attention. She clapped her hands sharply.

“We have a visitor,” she proclaimed, her eyes glittering. “He says he is a suitor from a far away land, and he has never heard of us. We must make sure he has a good first impression, mustn’t we?” She turned to him. “Pyrrha, you shall be my partner again tonight. We must be our best tonight, as always.” She whirled back out again and they all got themselves ready, fixing their appearances, adding jewelry, adjusting their hair beneath their veils. One of the girls nudged him.

“You are so lucky to be her favorite. Once she picks a husband, I bet you’ll get the second best to come!” He tried to smile and nod at her enthusiasm, but it was difficult. He felt sick whenever he was reminded that they were married, at the things they had done.

They filed into the great hall after their princess gestured for them to enter. Their hair was covered and they all wore the same dresses, but each girl tried to stand out to their stranger, hidden in the darkness beyond their brightly lit circle. These few visitors were their best chances at finding good husbands of their own before a marriage was assigned to them. They would all surely marry, but there was far greater romance in finding your own suitor. Achilles surely knew the fight for Patroclus had made gaining his heart even more precious.

The music started up as it always did, and they began to dance. Deidameia did in fact choose him as her partner, dancing closer than was customary, lowering her eyes then glancing up through her lashes, tossing her unbound hair. He knew she was beautiful, but he when he looked at her all he could see was the oppressive shadow straddling him at night, moving over him as he tried to take his mind anywhere but where he was.

The dancing was the only time that he came close to enjoying himself. The movement was like running, but more intricately done and in a more confined space. He could funnel all of his skill and pent up energy into this one activity and take the edge off the ache inside.

When the music ended, they all moved forward to curtsy for their guest, as they always did. Curtsying was no longer difficult for him, it had become a second nature just as bowing had once been. He raised his head as he finished deepening the curtsy, heart leaping as he met the earth-brown eyes watching him.

He threw himself forward, tackling their beautiful, perfect, wonderful visitor who had finally found him, returning his heart back to him.

“Pyrrha!” came the shriek from behind him, but he couldn’t find a single reason to care. Patroclus had come, he had not given him up. He had traveled the oceans and come back to him again, just as he always had before.

“Pyrrha, what is the meaning of this?”

He did not listen, did not care that the room was in uproar around them. Patroclus was really here with him again, after all this time apart.

“My mother,” he tried to choke out quickly, “my mother, she-“

“Pyrrha!” Lycomedes again, his old voice filling the hall, the only other sound beyond it his daughter’s wailing.

Achilles did not care, could not care. His fingers traced the lines of Patroclus’ face, twisted in the ends of his hair, smoothed and caressed wherever he could reach. He hated to admit it to himself, but he had lost hope in ever seeing him again.

He had changed so much in their month apart. His hair was thicker, his body was longer and firmer. Achilles hated that Patroclus had changed and he had not been there to see it.

“Out!” the king ordered, everyone quickly listening and leaving the four of them alone. He saw the girls casting glances at Patroclus and him, appreciative glances. Patroclus would never believe it, would never believe himself handsome, but he knew the women saw a good looking, high bred man anyone would want for a husband.

“Now,” the king said once they were alone, walking towards them. Deidameia was still wailing, the cries amplified by the old marble of the hall. “Who is this man, Pyrrha?”

“No one!” Deidameia was pulling at him, trying to get him away from Patroclus. His grip tightened, curling instinctively around Patroclus and holding him more firmly.

Achilles ignored her. “My husband.” It was true, at least to him. To the gods he may be married to the princess of Scyros, but his heart would be bound to only one for all of time.

“He is not! That’s not true!” She continued to sob through her protests.

When Achilles had been younger and still living in his father’s house, a servant girl had given birth to a child. When she was cleaning, she would put the child in a small basket with a blanket, and Achilles would often kneel down to play with the cooing baby when he came across it. But whenever he grew bored or looked away, the child would begin to cry pitifully, reaching for him until he played again, when the tears would disappear. He soon learned he was not making the child sad by leaving, he was making it angry, and it knew it would get what it wanted by crying to him.

When he looked at Deidameia, her face buried in her hands, shoulders wracked with sobs, he saw nothing but the child, crying because she knew it got her what she wanted. It had gotten her what she wanted the second night she had climbed on top of him. He had rebuked her for days after their marriage, refusing to acknowledge it, until one night she threw herself onto her bed before him and sobbed until he had acquiesced, lying back silently as she climbed onto him again. He had caught sight of her face then, beaming with pride and tearless like that child when he played with it again. He would not give her what she wanted again.

Lycomedes was looking at Patroclus, exasperated. “Sir, is this true?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

“No!” Deidameia cried.

Achilles ignored her, looking at the king, holding still to Patroclus as a lifeline. “My husband has come for me, and now I may leave your court. Thank you for your hospitality.” He curtsied respectfully, inclining his head to his host. It was not his fault what had happened under his nose. He blamed his mother, and the wailing princess who had taken advantage of his powerlessness without regret.

The old king held up his hand, shaking his head. “We should consult your mother first. It was she who gave you to me to foster. Does she know of this husband?”

“No!” Deidameia argued again, still jerking at his arm. He wondered what she hoped would happen.

“Daughter! Stop this scene. Release Pyrrha.”

“No!” She rounded on Achilles, chest heaving. He saw the red, swollen eyes and tracks of tears, but behind them he saw fury, just as he expected was truly behind her display. “You are lying! You have betrayed me! Monster! Apathes!”

Achilles flinched. Heartless man. That was not good. He looked nervously at the king, who had noticed as well.

“What was that?”

She lifted her chin, leveling her eyes firmly. “He is a man. We are married.”

Achilles felt Patroclus take this in. He knew he was hurt, that Achilles had explaining to do. But Patroclus would understand, of course he would understand. He always did.

“What!” Lycomedes clutched at is throat, looking at them all, horrified.

“Do not do this,” he whispered. “Please.”

This seemed to only fuel her more. “I will do it!” She looked at her father, smug. “You are a fool! I’m the only one who knew! I knew! And now I’ll tell everyone. Achilles!” She flung out her arms, screeching. “Achilles! Achilles! I’ll tell everyone!”

“You will not.” Achilles did not know when he had been so relieved to hear his mother’s voice in a very long time. He could not handle this on his own, he felt buried up to his neck, helpless.

She stood in the doorway, towering as she often did when they were among humans. Achilles felt as if he was deflating, exhausted. It was all just too much. He tore the veil form his hair, ripped at his dress, suddenly stricken with the need to free himself from his restraints.

“No more, Mother.”

His mother watched him silently. He knew something lurked in her depths, something he could only see hints of on the surface. He did not think he would ever fully understand the complexities within her, and he felt even more tired. He missed the simplicities of Pelion. He turned to the confused old king beside him.

“My mother and I have deceived you, for which I offer my apologies. I am the prince Achilles, son of Peleus. She did not wish me to go to war and hid me here, as one of your foster daughters.” He waited for the king to respond, but he did not. “We will leave now.”

“No,” Deidameia cried again. “You cannot. Your mother said the words over us, and we are married. You are my husband.”

Her father looked to his mother, two parents simply wishing to do what was best for their children. But a king was nothing to a goddess.

“Is this true?”

“It is,” she answered, unrepentant.

Achilles turned to Patroclus, wanted to explain that it meant nothing, that he had not chosen for any of this to happen. Again, he had no chance. His mother was always faster.

“You are bound to us now, King Lycomedes. You will continue to shelter Achilles here.” His heart lurched at the thought of staying any longer in this foreign land. “You will say nothing of who he is. In return, your daughter will one day be able to claim a famous husband. It is better than she would have done.”

The old king rubbed at his neck, his head bowed. “I have no choice, as you know.”

“What if I will not be silent?” Deidameia again, complicating things further, seeming to have no understanding of the stakes at hand for all of them. “You have ruined me, you and your son. I have lain with him, as you told me to, and my honor is gone. I will claim him now, before the court, as recompense.”

Achilles felt Patroclus pulling away from him, his heart hammering in his chest. He had to get him alone, away from these people. He had to explain. He knew once it was just them, everything would be as it always was, he would understand as he always had. He just needed to get him away from these people, still arguing, though he was hardly listening.

And then, “I am pregnant.” Barely more than a whisper, but it felt as if he was struck. Pregnant? How? When? Was it that second time he had allowed it, was it his fault it had happened? He felt he would vomit.

And then Patroclus was no longer beside him. Achilles whirled around, saw him leaving the room, not looking at him. No, no not this too. Patroclus could not leave him now, he needed him.

“Wait!” He tried to run after him, struggling with the tangling skirts. He finally caught Patroclus’ arm, pulling him short. He would not let this happen.

“Let go.” His voice was harsh, distant. Achilles had never heard him speak this way to him. It hurt.

“Please, wait. Please, let me explain. I did not want to do it. My mother-“ He could not breathe, he felt his world collapsing in on top of him. Patroclus could not leave him, he would be nothing without him. “She led the girl to my room. She made me. I did not want to. My mother- she said

-“ He felt himself gasping. “She said that if I did as she said, she would tell you where I was.” Patroclus must know this, must know if he was here. She had told him where he was, of course he must know of this. But Patroclus was not answering.

“Patroclus,” he said gentle, caressing his cheek, trying to make those beautiful eyes meet his. “Do you hear me? Please, say something.” _Do not push me away, my love. I cannot survive if you do not love me._

But he would not face him, would not meet his eyes. He felt his heart was breaking the longer the silence drew on.

“Patroclus?”

“You did it for nothing.”

 _No._ His voice was flat, empty. He had never heard Patroclus sound this way, never to him. He laughed a little, breathless. What he said was not possible, he did not understand.

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother did not tell me where you were. It was Peleus.”

**_No._ **

He could not breathe. “She did not tell you?”

“No. Did you truly expect she would?”

He felt foolish, gullible, like a useless child. He had believed his mother, that she would tell the boy she hated where he was. Patroclus had always said he should not trust so easily. But this was his mother, he had not thought his mother would lie to him like this, he had trusted that she would not do this. Not to him.

“Yes,” he whispered, for he could not raise his voice any louder. He felt hollowed.

He watched Patroclus, desperate for him to understand, just one more time. To accept one more flaw, one more mistake. He knew he was filled with them, he knew he was a disgrace of a prince, standing here in a ripped dress, hidden away by his mother to prevent him from fulfilling his destiny. But Patroclus had always been able to see past this, he just needed one more miracle. He would beg him, he would plead, he would do anything he had to do.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, tears gathering in his throat. “I did not want it. It was not you. I did not- I did not like it.”

Patroclus watched him a moment more, then pulled him into his arms. Achilles thought he might melt into them, holding him as tightly as he could. Patroclus pressed his face into his hair, grown longer in his time as a woman.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

\--

It was dark when they returned to the palace. No one seemed to be left walking the halls, but he held his ripped dress closed just in case.

He did not see the king as he sat in the shadows on his throne. “You have returned.”

“We have.” He did not know what else to say.

“Your mother is gone, I do not know where. My daughter, your wife, is in her room crying. She hopes you will come to her.”

He tried to remind himself of the wailing child of his youth, to not believe the tears. But he knew what she must be put through with this. Many things were her fault, but hoping her husband would love her was not one of them.

“It is unfortunate that she hopes for this.”

“It is indeed.” There was silence then. The king looked tired. “I suppose that you want a room for your friend?”

“If you do not mind.”

He laughed a little then. “No, Prince Achilles, I do not mind.” He drank from his goblet. Achilles thought if he were the king, he might be drinking now as well. “The child must have your name. You understand this?”

“I understand it.”

“And you swear it?”

Achilles thought of the last time he had said these words, in his last moments of happiness before his world began crumbling.

“I swear it.”

 _I feel like I could eat the world raw._ He did not think so anymore. He felt weak and dumb as a child, used by everyone for their own gains.

The king found this to be enough, and allowed them to leave, finding Patroclus’ room.

\--

The moment they were alone, they crashed together, tearing at clothing and dragging nails over skin as they kissed and grasped at one another, starving for the other.

Achilles covered every inch of Patroclus with hands and desperate kisses, savoring him. He did not care for his own pleasure in the moment, he cared only for driving Patroclus over his edge again and again, silently thanking him, worshipping him, showing him all the love he deserved.

But Patroclus would not lie back and simply take, he insisted on giving to Achilles just as much, giving him all he had ached for in his long nights alone, without his lover in his arms. He overflowed with it all, basking in the golden light only Patroclus could bring to his life.

The sun was beginning to rise and they were lying together, tangled with one another. Achilles would not let him go until he was forced to. He continued to pepper Patroclus’ dark shoulder with kisses, trailing fingers up and down his side languidly. Patroclus spoke first, his fingers in Achilles’ hair.

“Your mother was trying to hide you from the war?”

He nodded against his shoulder. “She does not want me to go to Troy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She says I’m too young. Not yet, she says.” Too old to train with Chiron, to young to fight. What did they want him to do?

“And it was her idea-“ He raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the torn dressed. Achilles snorted.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have done it myself.” He ran his fingers through the tangled curls. He missed his normal hair; it did not turn to knots as easily as this did. He did not care for putting much time into his appearance as those in a court did. “Anyway, it is only until the army leaves.”

Patroclus nodded but still seemed puzzled. “So, truly, it was not because of me? That she took you?”

He looked down, still feeling ashamed. He should not have believed so easily, he should have known agreeing would not help him.

“Deidameia was because of you, I think. But the rest was the war.”

They left it at this, falling back to one another and forgetting the rest of the world for as long as they could.


	13. Chapter 13

Having Patroclus back was like drinking deeply from a pool after weeks dying of thirst. They spent every minute with each other that they could, eating in their rooms, exploring the island for the first time since Achilles had been there. He had often gazed out the windows of their sitting room, longing for the stretches of beach, cool waters, and distant groves. Although even if he'd had the chance to sneak away from the endless sewing, he doubted he could have enjoyed it without Patroclus beside him. 

They soon found their way, finally, to the rocky shoreline. Different from the smooth sands of his Phthia, but still wonderful in their own sense. Still the open sea breeze, still the room to swim and run as he wished. He thought he might cry to feel the salt spray on his face once again. Upon seeing it, he had torn his stifling dress from his body. He ran for the first time in far, far too long, calling for Patroclus to count for him. He knew he must have lost some swiftness, sitting idly for so long, his legs cramping in their disuse. But as he ran and ran he found himself flying as he once had, his feet barely touching the stones. And every time there was Patroclus to call out his time, again beside him.

When he could not bear to be away from him anymore, Achilles sat beside Patroclus, languishing his limbs in the sun, grown pale from their time hidden beneath the long skirts. He stretched this way and that, talking for hours as they always had, as if nothing had changed. That was the wonder of his Patroclus; No matter how far apart they were, no matter what time passed, they could always fall back to one another as if it had been only a moment.

Yet their freedom only lasted as long as the sun shone. Once evening fell, they were forced to return to the hall and Achilles to his dresses, pretending he was a young woman and Patroclus his husband. The last part, for what it was worth, was not difficult to pretend. In fact he often had to stop himself from being too convincing for mixed company.

He often noticed Patroclus watching as he bound his hair. He knew his friend did not like the loss of it, but worried if it were not covered he might be found. Their time was often filled with compromises and sacrifices on this small island. He yearned for their mountains and seclusion.

His greatest sacrifice was his continued time spent with Deidameia, brief as he tried to make it. Their evening meals were spent eating amongst the small court, at the table of the king and his daughter. Achilles did his best to ignore her. Every time he saw her face, it transformed to that grin of victory as she straddled him those nights, pushing him down and moving over him. He would eat as quickly as he could and look at only Patroclus or his plate, fearing his meal would force itself back up if he were to look at the princess or her father. He did his best to feign disinterest and keep his unease hidden. It was better to appear cruel than weak.

He and Patroclus had hidden spears and swords on a far reach of the island, away from any prying eyes. If he had missed running, he had missed a spear in his hand even more. His mother had been right; they were like an extension of his self when they were in his hands. He felt rusty and clumsy as he swung them, threw them, buried them in make shift targets. But Patroclus would still smile and clap as he had when Achilles was at his peak. Every throw was farther than the last, each strike more forceful. He grew stronger every moment he was with Patroclus, like a plant finally taken from a dark room and returned to the sunshine.

Now that he had an excuse to be free of the palace, his mother wanted to make up for the lost time when he was captive in the marble towers, hidden away from her watchful eye behind the crumbling walls.

This day he had bidden farewell to Patroclus so that he may visit with her, Patroclus agreeing to wait in his room so that they may go on their evening walk when Achilles finished.

He sat on a rock overlooking the turbulent ocean, his mother appearing beside him. She sighed deeply, leaning against the rock and welcoming the ocean spray.

“I must make apologies to you, my son.”

Achilles startled at this. He could not remember a time his mother has ever apologized to him for anything. He did not know gods could understand the idea of making a mistake.

She sighed deeply again. “I wished to ensure you an heir, a princess for a wife, a safe place to avoid this war. But look what has happened; My son must disguise himself as a lowly mortal daughter of an unknown king, married to a selfish, petulant child from a forgotten kingdom. You are losing time that you should have been sharpening your ever growing skills, not spoiling in sitting rooms with embroidery in your hands. For this I am sorry, I should have chosen better for you. It was my responsibility, and I failed you.”

He felt touched at the apology. His mother was one to judge others, never herself. He knew this must be difficult for her.

“I thank you for your words, mother.” It was unspoken that he agreed with her, that he would never have agreed to her plans if he’d had any say in the matter. But this was not the time to be angry with her for what she had done. He had been sad, he had been angry, he had been hurt and betrayed. It could be difficult at times to understand his mother for she saw things from the side of eternity, where a few months or a year of time lost was like a moment. She did not understand what it was like to live the length of every moment and feel the ache of separation from another person.

Or perhaps she did now, now that she had him. He knew she felt every moment of his life slipping by like the grating of sand across her skin. This is why no matter how hurt or angry she was at him or his father or Patroclus, she would never pass a chance to see him. She told herself that he would one day be immortal and living forever by her side, but to her core sat fear like a spear of ice that he would die and be lost to her forever. These fears seem to have intensified with his time on this small island, and he wondered if they came from her inability to have access to him as she wished. She had become spoiled until now that she could demand to see him whenever she wished. But as long as he was posing as a mortal born girl, she could only see him when he could find his time alone. He had always thought to be away from his mother and not always within her grasp would be a relief, but now he felt so very alone. When he could not be with her or Patroclus he felt like a ship without oar or sail, drifting in the sea with no way to steer himself or find his way home.

She reached for him slowly, almost afraid, and took his hand in hers. He could not remember the last time they had done this, surely not since he had been a small child. Her hand was cool and rough like granite in his, but he did not let go. He felt himself waver and finally, after his months of disgust and solitude and anxiety, tears began to flow silently. She did not comment on them and he stayed silent as well, letting them fall for an undetermined amount of time, letting out the pain of his time beneath Deidameia’s heel.

She left quietly when it was time for her to go, not saying any more. He stayed by the water a while longer, watching the waves and calming himself. From the few times in his life that he had cried, he knew that his face did not betray him with splotches of red, which he was very thankful for now as he returned to the palace, hair bound and dress back in place.

When he found Patroclus again, he found himself crushed into a tight embrace which he welcomed, holding just as tightly and drawing on the strength he always found in his lover. Patroclus seemed withdrawn that evening as they lay on their bed and in each other’s arms, but whenever Achilles tried to ask he found his mouth crushed beneath Patroclus’ urgent one, and a pair of arms holding him even tighter. He did not press for he would not have wanted to talk about his own afternoon. He let it go and allowed himself to drown the infinitely deep pool that was Patroclus.


	14. Chapter 14

Deidameia left the morning after Achilles spoke with his mother. Soon she would have the child, and he would be named as father. The word father did not sit well on his narrow shoulders, still too young to be king and he had already fathered a child to replace himself one day.

With her departure came an abundance of relief, but also a terrible impatience. They still spent their days wrapped in nothing but one another, but now there seemed to be no end. It was an endless stream of waiting for the war to start so that they could finally return home to Pelion and Chiron. They ducked their heads whenever Lycomedes walked by, avoiding his hurt and angry gazy. He had befallen a great misfortune, and as much as Achilles told himself it wasn’t his fault it still felt like it was.

Whispers of the war came through the cracks around them. Achilles tried to plug them all, keep it out, but they continued to come all the same. The kingdoms were aligning; princes and kings from all lands came to fight in the name of unnameable beauty. Or, at least, what they were told was unnameable beauty, for as far as Achilles knew none of them but her husband knew what she looked like.

So far to the south, time seemed to stay eternally frozen. There were no seasons to show the passage of time, simply a constant a summer that at first had been pleasant but now seemed stifling in its monotony. However, it did give them endless days of sitting by the shore together, feeling the warm breezes on their faces and occasionally cooled by the spray of the sea as it reached the rocks.

That day, they had been high on the cliff face, dropping pebbles off the side and watching them clatter downwards. Anything with Patroclus was a good time for Achilles, but he did yearn for more.

"I wish I had your mother's lyre." He ached to pluck its golden strings. The only instruments here were old and far too worn to be tuned properly.

"Me too."

Achilles might have remarked that if they had the time they could learn to make their own, but a strange flash on the horizon caught his eye, drawing him to lean forward as if the extra inches might help him see.

"What is that?" There was something there, just there, but he could not tell what it was. Or rather, as a sickening feeling in his stomach told him, he did not want to think of what he knew it must be.

"I cannot tell." Patroclus was squinting against the low sun, his mortal eyes not as keen. "If it is a ship, there will be news," he said, a nervous tremble to his voice. News was an anxious thing these days. They could be coming in search of Patroclus for deserting, and he was not under an assumed identity as Achilles was. He would have nowhere to hide should the king say he is there.

"It's a ship, for certain." The blob was moving more clearly into focus, traveling quickly towards their island. "Not a trader." The sails were far too gaudy for the cheap traveling merchants. These were yellow and black and made the ship look like a fat bee drifting over the water.

"Do you know the design?"

 He shook his head, continuing to watch the ship warily. It moved deftly around the dangerous rocks to beach itself, its occupants busily getting ready to disembark. It was time for them to leave, before they were noticed. He put his hair back under its covering while Patroclus helped him with his dress, fixing it so it hung just so. He leaned down to brush their lips together before departing, whispering "Later." Before he had time to change his mind and turn later into now, he went back down the familiar path to the women's quarters.

Returning to the chambers was always a chore. It felt too warm without the gentle breeze, and the room too cluttered by other bodies and discarded objects. The foster daughters were as messy as his father's sons, but where their mess had been dice and blunted weapons these were delicate and filled with impossible to see pins that would prick at ones skin if you came into contact with it, which was often when they were left strewn about the floor.

One of the others giggled as he came in.

"Off with your husband again?"

Another swatted at him playfully. "Be careful, or that nice figure of yours will start to get round." She mimed his belly growing with pregnancy and he gave his girlish laugh in response. Lying to them felt more difficult that he had thought it would. With the foster boys they had only liked him because he was a prince, but to these girls he was one of them and they still liked him without an elevated station. He felt worse about lying to people who did nothing but enjoy his company and trust him.

"Be nice to Pyrrha, you're all just jealous that she has a husband and you don't." One of the girls put her arm around Achilles shoulders.

"Yes," Achilles agreed sagely, "And when you do they will not be as handsome as mine."

The others laughed, sitting around in a circle. "Well he certainly does have a few qualities I would not throw away in a man." They giggled again and gossiped about Patroclus' hair and how his body compared to that of their guards and other visitors. Achilles always chimed in to say whatever they liked was best on Patroclus and they would swat at him playfully for being so sickeningly in love.

When they did finally leave, Achilles would miss this.

\--

News of the visitors traveled to their chamber after an hour of sitting about. Achilles felt his chest tighten as he heard the names Odysseus and Diomedes whispered among the women and servants. A prince and king, suitors of Helen and very important men in this upcoming war. There were only two things, or people, they could be here for and Achilles did not like either outcome. He hoped Lycomedes did not give them away out of spite for his daughter's honor. For once he hoped his mother had been frightening enough to keep this man quiet.

Their meal dragged on for what seemed like hours as Achilles picked at his food, not interested in eating. He did not know if he should take the prolonged silence to be a good sign or bad. He hoped the men simply stopped for supplies on their way to another location, knowing that the old king would happily serve important visitors on his long forgotten island. He worried for Patroclus, alone among men who could at any moment demand he serve his time as a soldier should they discover him.

All of a sudden, a panting servant was sent to their quarters looking more than a little confused and announced that the visitors wished to see the infamous dancing girls of Scyros. He had thought his mother had forbid this, but he could not say no.

"Right now," the servant added when they did not immediately stand, puzzled by the odd request as were the rest of the girls. Without their princess, they were not usually summoned. They were meant to augment Deidameia, not stand out on their own.

Putting down their plates, Achilles and the girls quickly readied themselves as they made their way to the hall, many hoping to catch the eye of one of the important travelers, if not for himself than another royal family member looking to bed a beautiful young maiden.

He did not look up as they entered the hall. He could see through his lashes Patroclus' legs, crossed nervously at the ankles and tucked beneath his seat. And there, not far away, was the dark leg with the infamous scar belonging to none other than Odysseus. When no comments were made and no king stood, crying "There! The prince is there!" he let out a small sigh of relief and began to dance with the others, whirling to the music with the usual steps, letting himself blend in as the others tried to stand out. Achilles noted the king Diomedes gesturing favorably to a girl a few feet away and hoped the notice would go well for her.

When they had finished dancing, Odysseus stood and Achilles kept his face modestly averted.

"We are truly honored by your performance; not everyone can say that they have seen the dancers of Scyros. As tokens of our admiration we have brought gifts for you and your king."

The girls murmured excitedly around him and he himself even felt a little excited at the possibility of a new lyre or perhaps a flute hidden among the treasures. The king accepted warmly as large trunks were brought into the hall and their contents bared. Gems and jewelry and and trinkets of all kinds were laid before them.

"Please, take what you would like." Achilles let the others go ahead of him, knowing they would not be interested in what he wanted when such luxuries were there for the taking. Achilles made sure not to linger over the weapons, although he wished to. They were some of the finest he had seen in many months and his limbs ached for their wight in his hands and his usual exercises. He resigned himself to fingering mirrors and sampling perfume along with the others. He found a pair of blue earrings and smiled as he held them up to himself, enjoying himself despite the closeness of the foreign kings as he played his role. His eyes caught on Patroclus who grinned at his actions. If they could play along long enough, everything would be alright.

But then the trumpet came, loud and panicked. It was not the trumpet of a new arrival, it was that of danger, immediate and swift, come to take them all. Fear gripped Achilles' heart and he acted before thinking, knowing that he needed to protect Patroclus above all else. Amid the screams of the girls and servants and the kings horror, he unsheathed a sword, leapt the table easily, and took a spear in his free hand, ready for whatever dangers dared to try and come for them.

But none came. Only that horrible phrase he had dreaded hearing since his arrival.

"Greetings, Prince Achilles. We've been looking for you."

He had ruined them all. His mother's plan, Patroclus' safety, his own hidden identity. But he could not begrudge the instincts that were honed to protect those he loved. These men had used his greatest skills against him. He lowered his weapons, determined to take this with poise and dignity. He could be discovered, but they would find no reason to mock him.

"Lord Odysseus. Lord Diomedes." He inclined his head only slightly. "I am honored to be the subject of so much effort." He could not imagine what it was that drove them to such lengths. Had they not enough god children fighting for them? "I assume you wish to speak with me? Just a moment, and I will join you." He replaced the weapons and undid his hair, relieved to at the least not have to hide himself anymore. He ignored the whispers around him and focused on the two men at hand.

"Perhaps this will help?" Odysseus lifted a tunic and tossed it to him. Achilles was tempted to turn it down and continue their dealings in his dress, but now was not the time to push boundaries with men who were most likely worn thin on patience with him.

"Thank you." He stripped himself easily and dressed in the tunic, unbothered by the stares, both shocked and appreciative, of those around him.

"Lycomedes," Odysseus inquired casually. "May we borrow a room of state, please? We have much to discuss with the prince of Phthia."

The old king did not answer, but looked on in horror to what he had done. Achilles tried to tell himself that his mother did not hurt humans, but the word  _yet_ finished the sentence every time he thought it. No human had betrayed her sons safety until this moment.

"Lycomedes," came Diomedes, not as patient or good natured as his comrade.

"Yes," he croaked weakly, gesturing a trembling finger. "Yes. Just through there."

"Thank you." The prince and king moved towards the door.

"After you," came the snide comment from Diomedes, gesturing him forwards. _You cannot run again._  Achilles hesitated, eyes moving to his Patroclus frozen in fear by the table. What would they do now? What could they do?

"Oh yes," called Odysseus from within the room. "You're welcome to bring Patroclus along, if you like. We have business with him, as well."


	15. Chapter 15

Achilles walked numbly into the small meeting room. He couldn't bear to look at Patroclus. He knew he had let him down, let them both down. It was all for nothing now, Deidameia, the child, the marriage, the nights spent beneath her. Why did they ever leave Pelion?

Shame burned brightly inside of him. He had been naive, tricked into believing danger would attack when some of Greece's greatest princes and generals were at Scyros. He should have known. They should not have fooled him, he should have cowered with the women and given them no proof. He had ruined them, and now they would call not only him but Patroclus as well to fight.

"It was a trick," he spat once they were within the privacy of the room.

Odysseus seemed uninterested in his anger. "You were clever in hiding yourself; we had to be cleverer still in finding you."

He raised an eyebrow. This was certainly a lot of fuss over one prince, child of a goddess or not. Did they not have enough sons of Zeus to fill their ranks?

"Well? You've found me. What do you want?"

"We want you to come to Troy," Odysseus replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And if I do not want to come?"

"Then we make this known," came Diomedes, lifting the remains of his dress. Fury rose in him, overcoming the shame. So it would be blackmail then that would force his hand? They were lucky he did not slay them where they stood for the insult.

Odysseus raised a hand to restrain his hotheaded friend. "We are all noble men here and it should not have to come to such measures. I hope we can offer you happier reasons to agree. Fame, for instance. You will win much of it, if you fight for us."

Fame from fighting with such snakes? "There will be other wars."

"Not like this one." Achilles could see Diomedes growing impatient. Was he angry that Achilles saw himself above the war they had so eagerly joined? He hoped so. "This will be the greatest war of our people, remembered in legend and in song for generations. You are a fool not to see it."

"I see nothing but a cuckolded husband and Agamemnon's greed."

"Then you are blind. What is more heroic than to fight for the honor of the most beautiful woman in the world, against the mightiest city of the East? Perseus cannot say he did so much, nor Jason. Heracles would kill his wife again for a chance to come along. We will master Anatolia all the way to Araby. We will carve ourselves into stories for ages to come."

"I thought you said it would be an easy campaign," came the soft voice of Patroclus, who looked more ill the more they spoke. "Home by next fall."

"I lied." Odysseus, unrepentant. "I have no idea how long it will be. Faster if we have you." He looked back to Achilles, eyes bright and impassioned. "The sons of Troy are known for their skill in battle, and their deaths will lift your name to the stars. If you miss it, you will miss your chance at immortality. You will stay behind, unknown. You will grow old, and older in obscurity."

"You cannot know that."

"Actually, I can." Achilles did not trust that tone. "I am fortunate to have some knowledge of the gods. And the gods have seen fit to share with me a prophecy about you."

The words hit him like a punch to the stomach. He had known of the prophecy of his birth, that he would be greater than his father. What more could there be? And did he want to know so much about his own future?

"What prophecy?"

Odysseus smiled, pleased that something had gotten through. "That if you do not come to Troy, your godhead will wither in you, unused. Your strength will diminish. At best, you will be like Lycomedes here, moldering on a forgotten island with only daughters to succeed him. Scyros will be conquered soon by a nearby state; you know this as well as I. They will not kill him; why should they? He can live out his years in some corner eating the bread they soften for him, senile and alone. When he dies, people will say,  _who_?"

Achilles felt his insides fill with ice at the thought of becoming like the old king. No more moving like a leaf on the wind, no more being able to do any of his skills and tricks? They were the only reason anyone loved him, what would be left if he no longer had his abilities? He did not know if there was anything inside him other than his tricks.

"He is known now only because of how his story touches yours. If you go to Troy, your fame will be so great that a man will be written into eternal legend just for having passed a cup to you. You will be-"

Before he could finish, the door burst open, wood flying around the room as his mother entered, fury burning the very air around them. He watched how the others were affected by it, Diomedes cowering away, Patroclus shrinking in horror. Only Achilles and Odysseus were unaffected. Only they who were touched by the gods could bear her presence.

"Greetings, Thetis."

Achilles could feel the movement of her eyes as they turned to the man who would take her son from her. He had never seen hatred like this in her before. Not even towards his father. 

He knew she was trying to kill him, remove any chance for him to take her son away. But there he remained, alive and nearly smiling as his mother's fury grew.

"The gray-eyed maiden has ever been kind to me. She knows why I am here; she blesses and guards my purpose."

A gift of protection from Athena herself, a goddess his mother could not hope to touch in power. He was certainly a man of many gifts.

"Athena has no child to lose." The words dragged their way out of her like boats against a rocky shore. He could hear the furious waves in her voice.

Odysseus turned to him instead of responding. Achilles briefly wondered how, as a father, he rationalized asking a parent to send their child to war. Would he be so keen on sending his own son?

"Ask her. Ask your mother what she knows."

He turned to his mother, forcing her to meet his eyes. What was it that everyone else seemed to know about his future that he did not?

"Is it true, what he says?"

She seemed like a statue, immobile except for her face, frozen into stone. "It is true. But there is more, and worse that he has not said. If you go to Troy, you will never return. You will die a young man there."

_You will die._

"It is certain?"

Her eyes held an eternity of emotions that he could not reach. "It is certain."

He couldn't look at Patroclus, he couldn't see his face as he processed this news.  _I will die._

"What should I do?"

He wondered if his mother could cry. After everything, she seemed closest here in this moment than he had ever seen her.

"Do not ask me to choose." And with that she was gone and Achilles was left to decide, alone.

\--

He knew words were spoken about the war, the future. He must have said some of them. But all he could think of was this choice he had to make. He was not looking at Odysseus or Diomedes or even Patroclus, he was looking at himself. Standing among the stars, a god made of gold and filled with eternity. He could see the eternal youth on his face, his mother beside him along with every hero that came before him. His immortal self held out a hand to him, an offering.

 _Go to Troy,_ he could hear it whisper.  _Gain glory, die a hero like the others and watch your soul lift to the heavens for the rest of time._

It was a gamble, the greatest he could make. If he did not achieve enough glory, if he was not enough of a hero, then he would die young and go to Hades with the soul of every other lowly soldier who would die on those fields.

But he would be remembered even then. If he were to live a long life only to waste away, he would be remembered by no one. His work, his training, his life would all be for nothing. At least if he went to Troy, there would be purpose to it all. He would be remembered, he would be loved. That was all he had ever wanted.

He clutched Patroclus' hands when they were alone. He needed strength to do this, to overcome his fears. Patroclus was the only place he could find that strength now.

"I do not think I could bear it." He squeezed his eyes tightly closed against the path that lay before him should he hesitate. He saw himself now just as he saw his immortal self, stooped and wrinkled, his hair dull, his eyes listless, his feet curled uselessly beneath him. No, he could not bear that. He would rest eternally in Hades before he lived such a life. And what was a few more years to eternity? It would stretch before him one way or another.

"I would not care," Patroclus' hushed reply. "Whatever you became. It would not matter to me. We would be together. "

He knew this, he knew of anyone in this world Patroclus would stay by his side, still the little boy who had been by his side for who he was not what he could do. But what if that changed? Patroclus loved his skill and his speed, would he still love him if he was useless? He would rather die knowing Patroclus loved him than watch that love fade.

"I know."

He could not look at Patroclus, he could not see what he was doing to him. But he was selfish above all else. Patroclus had understood everything else, he would understand this.

"I will go. I will go to Troy." He turned to Patroclus, watched those large eyes searching his face. Did he find what he was looking for? "Will you come with me?"

He could only give up his life, his future, if his remaining time was with Patroclus by his side. He could achieve no glory unless Patroclus was there. He could not fight without his heart.

He could see the pain, the fear, the urge to run. That made it all the more sweet when he heard the whispered " _Yes._ "

He brought Patroclus to him, crushing their bodies so close that nothing could ever come between them. He could feel the racing of Patroclus' heart against his own chest. He thought that perhaps he could hold his lover tight enough that they could become one person and he could carry Patroclus with him into godhood.

\-- 

They lay together for hours, neither sleeping. What lay on their minds was too great. Patroclus was burrowed against his chest, Achilles could hear him softly counting the beats of his heart like they were precious and few. Perhaps now they were.

He hated to drag himself from the warmth of their shared bed, but he needed to speak with his mother. He knew there was more to this prophecy and he needed to know it all if he was to go to war. He needed to tell her of his decision.

 _Thank you,_ he wanted to say as he gazed at his lover's still form.  _Thank you for following wherever I go. Thank you for loving me. I am sorry for all of it. I will find a way to make this up to you, I swear it._

All that came out was "I must go tell my mother."

He pulled on a tunic and left, not looking back. It felt like it did so many years ago when he left Patroclus behind to go to Pelion. How is it that it could hurt more this time, knowing they would be together?

He sat beside the sea, hugging his knees as he had done when he was a child. He knew she would come without him calling. She was as constant as the tides she lived within.

For the first time, his mother sat. He knew she had sat when she lived in the palace but he could not remember ever seeing it before. Her skirts folded around her and she smoothed them unnecessarily. It was so bitterly human that Achilles wanted to cry again. He wondered what other parts of himself had rubbed off on her. Whatever happened, they would live inside of her for the rest of time, even if he did not.

"You are going."

"I am going."

She nodded, swallowing. "You must gain glory. You must shine above them all. You must be greater than any god child who has ever lived." She turned to him, burning brightly and taking his face in her hands. "You must kill them all. Sarpedon, Paris, they must all die. Only then will the gods understand and give you what you are destined for."

"I will kill them all, Mother. Paris, Hector and all their family shall fall beneath my sword for their treachery." He watched the look in her eyes as he said that and paused, frowning. "What more do you know?"

"Hectors death shall herald your own."

He let out a breath. He did not know if he should feel more scared or relieved. On the one hand he would know he was safe as long as Hector lived. On the other, once Hector fell he would know his death was next. He did not know how much more about his death he could bear to hear. 

"All right."

He did not know what was more to say. Perhaps he should tell his mother he loved her. He did, he always did. Even when he hated her he loved her. She was the only one who seemed to understand how he felt about his godhood. She was the only one who understood the meaning of forever.

He did not know if she had ever said it. Perhaps as a child, before he could remember. It was always there, though. He was the only thing she had ever loved, would ever love.

He did not know when she left, only that after a few moments he realized that once again he was alone. He did not know when he had ever felt so desperately alone.

He pressed his face into his knees and let the world exist without him for a while.

He did not snap out of it until he heard Patroclus' voice wafting on the wind. Nothing could have dragged him out of his reverie except this.

As he drew closer, he could swear he heard his mother's voice as well. The two of them talking had never been good before.

As he came upon the peak, Patroclus was alone. His feet were bloodied and his face a mess of a hundred different emotions.

"I heard you talking."

"It was your mother."

He nodded and sat beside Patroclus, taking his foot and beginning to clean it carefully. caressed the soft foot, so bitten by the jagged rocks. He should have asked what had driven Patroclus to do such a dangerous and foolish thing. He did not, he already knew the answer.

A hand closed around his, Patroclus urgent. "You must not kill Hector."

He looked up at his Patroclus, his beautiful Patroclus. His large eyes framed by those beautiful, long dark lashes. Beads of tears hung on them like jewels. He wanted to kiss them away.

"My mother told you the rest of the prophecy."

"She did."

"And you think that no one but me can kill Hector?" His heart swelled with Patroclus' belief in him.

"Yes." 

"And you think to steal time from the Fates?"

"Yes."

He could not stop the slow smile from spreading over his face. His wonderful Patroclus would have him steal life itself from the gods. Of course he would.

"Ah. Well, why should I kill him? He's done nothing to me."

Patroclus smiled then and Achilles thought that with it he could fly.

\--

They left that afternoon. Achilles wished he could have said goodbye to the women he had lived with the last month. He was sure they had many questions. Lycomedes came to wish them farewell, something that astounded Achilles. He would have expected the old king to be locked in his rooms, drowning his sorrows in wine.

It was strange, standing there with just Patroclus and the king. Odysseus and Diomedes had abandoned them to the ships. He did not know what to say, if there was anything to say to the king whose daughter he lied to, married, and impregnated.

He cleared his throat. "Lycomedes, my mother has asked me to convey her desires to you."

Achilles saw a bolt of terror go through him for just a moment. "It is about the child."

"It is."

"And what does she wish?"

It had not occurred to Achilles until now that the king would want his grandchild. His own father would never know the child.

"She wishes to raise him herself. She-" He swallowed, pushing through it as he saw the pain on the old man's face. "The child will be a boy, she says. When he is weaned, she will claim him."

The old man closed his eyes. Achilles felt the pain coming off of him. He had taken all from this man, simply by existing near him. 

"I wish you had never come."

"I'm sorry."

"Leave me." They left.

\--

They inspected the ship as they traveled, they did not know what else to do. Achilles ran his hands along the strong beams of wood holding it all together. He looked over it to the water below and wondered, idly, if he could drown with his mother a goddess of the sea. Would the seas carry him to the shore gently, refusing to let him sink? He found himself tempted to jump off the rigging to test it. Knowing he could not die until Hector had emboldened him.

"You are admiring my wife, I see." Achilles turned to see Odysseus come up to join them. Yes, he and Patroclus had been facing the beautiful carving of a woman on the ship, but he had not even seen it. "She refused at first, wouldn't let the artist near her. I had to have him follow her in secret. I think it turned out rather well, actually."

Achilles nodded. Odysseus was one of the strangest men he had ever encountered.

"What is her name?"

"Penelope." He said the name like it was made of honey.

"Is the ship new?" came Patroclus, blissfully changing the topic to something they could all speak about without Odysseus burning their ears with tales of his wife.

"Very. Every last timber of it, from the best wood that Ithaca has." He slapped the ship proudly, as if he were the one that built it. Strange how men felt pride for things they had not done themselves.

Soon Diomedes joined them and the talk finally became good. Talk of wars and kings and monsters, things Achilles had only heard of in stories but they had truly seen. He found himself warming to them, wanting to hear more about their lives and their travels. Soon he would have such stories of heroism and fantastical battles just like them. 

As the sun set they grew closer to the shore. It seemed like a lifetime that he had been on that island. He ached for the familiar lands of his father. It could very well be the last time he ever saw them.

As night grew he and Patroclus stood together, camp being made around them. He had grown so accustomed to making camp on Pelion that it felt strange to watch as others did it for him. 

"Is all well here?" Odysseus once again came to stand beside them. Achilles smiled at him, pleased for another friendly presence amid the lonesome chaos.

"Very well, thank you."

Odysseus smiled back at him, making Achilles feel as if he were one of the generals and not so much younger than everyone else going to fight.

"Excellent. One tent's enough, I hope? I've heard that you prefer to share. Rooms and bedrolls both, they say."

Achilles felt the breath leave him. How could he know? How could they know? Had he and Patroclus not been careful enough? Beside him, he could see the horror on Patroclus' face.

"Come now, there's no need for shame-It's a common enough thing among boys." He scratched his beard, his tone mocking. "Though you're not really boys any longer. How old are you?"

Achilles wanted to take a spear to him for his disrespect. Would he say such thing of Menelaus? Agamemnon? He traveled half the world for Achilles only to treat him as an insolent child?

"It's not true," rang out Patroclus, fearful and trying desperately to save them both.

"True is what men believe, and they believe this of you. But perhaps they are mistaken. If the rumor concerns you, then leave it behind when you sail to war."

"It is no business of yours, Prince of Ithaca." If someone insulted his dear wife so would he act as calmly as he expected Achilles to? This man had one rule for himself and another for everyone else that he saw below himself.

He held up his hands, his eyes filled with amusement at Achilles' anger. "My apologies if I have offended. I merely came to wish you both good night and ensure that all was satisfactory. Prince Achilles, Patroclus." He left the tent and Achilles felt he could hardly breathe around his anger.

He expected to hear Patroclus rage at what Odysseus had said, to be as furious as he was. He did not expect "Perhaps he is right."

He turned to Patroclus, horrified. "You do not think that."

"I do not mean-" Patroclus looked down, focusing on his fingers rather than Achilles. "I would still be with you. But I could sleep outside, so it would not be so obvious. I do not need to attend your councils. I-"

"No." He would not lose Patroclus to this. "The Phthians will not care. And the others can talk all they like. I will be  _Aristos Achaion_."

"Your honor could be darkened by it."

"Then it is darkened." He would not see that sad look in Patroclus' eyes because of them. "They are fools if they let my glory rise or fall on this."

"But Odysseus-"

"Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this." He would let nothing and no one take Patroclus from him. He would fight their war and give them his life but not his love. That he would keep for himself.

\--

The next day the wind carried them fast and strong over the water. He did not wish to speak to Odysseus but he knew he had no choice.

"Prince of Ithaca. I wish to hear you speak of Agamemnon and the other kings. I would know the men I am to join, and the princes I am to fight."

"Very wise, Prince Achilles." He spoke just as formally but Achilles could hear the condescension in his voice. Achilles was still a child in his eyes. "Now, where to begin? There is Menelaus, whose wife we go to retrieve. After Helen picked him for her husband-Patroclus can tell you about that-he became king of Sparta. He is known as a good man, fearless in battle and well liked in the world. Many kings have rallied to his cause, and not just those who are bound to their oaths."

"Such as?"

He began counting them out on his hands. "Meriones, Idomeneus, Philoctetes, Ajax. Both Ajaxes, larger and lesser."

Achilles saw Patroclus' eyes go off a little as he went back into his memories and remembered it all. Odysseus went on about the rest of the Greeks and the Trojans. Finally, Achilles did not want to wait anymore.

"What about Hector?"

"Priam's oldest son and heir, favorite of the God Apollo. Troy's mightiest defender."

He nodded. Favored of Apollo was not good. "What does he look like?"

"I don't know. They say he is large, but that is said of most heroes. You'll meet him before I do, so you'll have to tell me."

He frowned, wary. "Why do you say that?"

"As I'm sure Diomedes will agree, I am a competent soldier but no more; my talents lie elsewhere. If I were to meet Hector in battle, I would not be bringing back news of him. You, of course, are a different matter. You will win the greatest fame from his death."

Achilles could feel Patroclus go still next to him. 

"Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him. He's done nothing to me."

Odysseus laughed at this. "If every soldier killed only those who'd personally offended him, Pelides, we'd have no wars at all." He paused, considering. "Though maybe it's not such a bad idea. In that world, perhaps, I'd be  _Aristos Achaion_ , instead of you."

Achilles turned away. He continued to ask questions and Odysseus continued to answer them. He learned of the curse upon Menelaus and Agamemnon's family. Odysseus spoke highly of Agamemnon, to Achilles' annoyance. The king did not command him.

"We are each generals."

"Of course," Odysseus agreed. "But we are all going to fight the same enemy, are we not? Two dozen generals on one battlefield will be chaos and defeat. You know how well we all get along-We'd probably end up killing each other instead of the Trojans. Success in such a war as this comes only through men sewn to a single purpose, funneled to a single spear thrust rather than a thousand needle pricks. You lead the Phthians, and I the Ithacans, but there must be someone who uses us each to our abilities." He gave Achilles a smile that he ignored. "However great they may be."

Achilles looked away towards the endless horizon. "I come of my free will, Prince of Ithaca. I will take Agamemnon's counsel, but not his orders. I would have you understand this."

He would not listen to the brother of a man who could not manage to keep his wife under the same roof. He was tired enough already of these princes and the war had not yet begun.

"Gods save us from ourselves. Not even in battle yet, and already worrying over honors."

"I am not-"

Odysseus waved his words away. "Believe me, Agamemnon understands your great worth to his cause. It was he who first wished you to come. You will be welcomed to our army with all the pomp you could desire."

Achilles did not know what to say. He decided not to say anything at all and allowed himself to be distracted as they called for land ahead.

\--

That night, Achilles lay back in their bed. "What do you think of these men we will meet?"

"I don't know."

Patroclus seemed distant. Achilles did not like it. After all their time stuck around everyone else, he wanted to focus everything in on Patroclus.

"I am glad Diomedes is gone, at least."

"Me too. I do not trust them."

Achilles studied Patroclus' face, seeing the worry. "I suppose we will know soon enough what they are like."

There was silence. Outside, it rained.

"Odysseus said it would storm tonight."

It would be clear again tomorrow. Carrying them closer to home. Closer to the war.

He did not want to think of that now. Not Diomedes or wars or the future. Right now all that existed in the world was inside their tent. There was only Patroclus and that sad face that he needed to erase.

He sat up, moving closer to Patroclus. "Your hair never quite lies flat here." He fingered the wonderful piece of hair, stroking his fingers over it. "I don't think I've ever told you how I like it."

Patroclus relaxed into his touch. "You haven't."

"I should have." He let his fingers ghost lower to the vee at his throat, letting his fingers play at the pulse there. That wonderful beating that reminded him how solid and blissfully real Patroclus was right here in front of him. "What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?"

"No." Ah, there was that tremble in Patroclus' voice that he had looked for. 

He moved his hand lower to Patroclus' chest, the strong muscles moving under his hand. He lowered his voice. "This, surely then. Have I told you of this?"

"That you have told me." Patroclus' breath was coming shallow, his eyes lidded.

"And what of this?" He let his hand move lower, caressing his hip then further still to stroke his firm thigh, pulling Patroclus closer. He let his lips linger a breath from Patroclus' ear. "Have I spoken of it?"

"You have."

His hand moved further, making Patroclus' breaths come faster, his eyes close. "And this. Surely, I would not have forgotten this." He smiled against the skin of Patroclus' throat. "Tell me I did not."

"You did not."

"There is this, too." He moved his hand faster, exploring everywhere he had yearned to touch when they were surrounded by prying eyes. "I know I have told you of this."

Patroclus pressed against him, begging for more. "Tell me again."

 


	16. Chapter 16

Phthia came back into view the next day, shimmering like a dream along the horizon. Achilles stood at the rail of the great ship with Patroclus, finding dolphins and leaping fish and the birds that flew low over the waves. 

As the thin line came closer over the horizon Achilles squinted, noting something off about the land coming towards them.

"Do you see that?"

Patroclus leaned forward over the rail, straining to see what Achilles could so clearly. "What?"

It was so easy for Achilles to forget that what was easy for him was difficult for Patroclus. He could never tell what was normal and what were his gifts. 

"The shore. It looks strange."

He could see better now, see the strange pulsing nature of the land was from the hundreds of people gathered along its shores, waving and cheering. For a moment he wondered if they were confused and thought the ship was that of Odysseus or Agamemnon or Diomedes. But then, carried over the waves and wind, he had no doubt assisted by his mother, came the unmistakable chant.  _Prince Achilles! Aristos Achaion._

He stared at the people as they drew to port, stunned. The crowd charged forward, splashing through the waves, hands reaching up towards him, their faces glowing with adoration. Achilles did not know what to feel, what to think. It was as if he was back to being a child in the meal hall with the other boys, juggling figs. Only now he did not even have to do anything, they had fallen in love with his name alone. He had been gone for years and they loved him more than ever. Was this what it was like, to be a legend? To be a god?

He hesitated as the plank landed on the rocks of the shore, as soldiers held back the crowd. He was to descend, he was to walk among them, but he did not know how. How did the greatest of Greeks walk? How did the greatest of Greeks stand, speak? He had spent so long among superiors or equals, he had forgotten what it meant to be above all who surrounded him.

He turned to Patroclus, wordlessly asking for help, his lover understanding as he always did and reaching out to clasp his hand.

"Go," he whispered, his face nervous but encouraging all the same. "They are waiting for you."

Taking a breath he let his hand slip out of Patroclus' grasp and stepped onto the gangplank, alone. He raised his hand, greeting his people. He feared he did not appear regal enough but the people cheered all the same, calling for him, throwing themselves forward for the chance to graze their fingers along his arm, his leg, his clothes.

He turned back, locking eyes with Patroclus, who seemed to be edging away, giving a separation between them. He would not have that. Odysseus said that simply handing him a goblet could get a man eternal glory. Surely being his companion could bring Patroclus enough that he might follow Achilles as a hero? He would do his best to try.

"Come with me!" he called over the cries, extending his hand. Patroclus hesitated a moment, but followed him down the plank without protest. 

At the end of the plank and the throngs of his people stood his father. Tears threatened in his throat as he took in his father, knowing that this was the last time he would see his father after time apart. The next time they said goodbye would be the last time. He would never again say hello to his father.

Achilles surged forward the last few steps, taking Peleus in his arms as his father did the same, their tears falling into each other's hair.

For a moment, he was not hugging his father but himself, his future. He saw the faded gold hair, the wrinkled bronze skin, the hazy green eyes. He saw the thin hands that held no more spears, but perhaps the hands of more children and even grandchildren he would never have. And as he raised his eyes, he saw an aged Patroclus, smiling sadly at him. A face he knew he would never see in life, a face that he would have kissed a hundred thousand more times, had a hundred thousand more conversation with, told he loved countless more times. He could delay killing Hector, but not that long. As he stepped back from his father he stepped back from this glimpse of the future that would never be, watched these phantoms slip from his grasp into nothingness. He almost did not hear his father calling out to their people, so lost was he inside himself.

"Our prince has returned!" Achilles was so close to his father he could feel the vibrations of his voice in his own chest. "Before you all I offer welcome to my most beloved son, sole heir to my kingdom." Achilles felt a spike of ice shoot through his heart at these words. "He will lead you to Troy in glory; he will return home in triumph!"

_I will not_ , Achilles thought numbly. Who would take over for his father when he had died? Would his father have mercifully left the earth before this happened, or would he live to see his kingdom over taken by outsiders, stripped of his titles and his lands, forgotten by the same gods who gifted him the goddess wife that started all this? Would it not have been better that he married a mortal woman, had mortal children, and died peacefully in his sleep, assured of the endlessness of his line?

"He is a man grown, and god born.  _Aristos Achaion_!"

The crowd swelled around him, screaming, stomping their feet, beating their shields. All for him, all for him. 

Leaning towards his father, he whispered "This would all be nothing, if not for you." His father said nothing in response, but beamed with pride, arm tightening around Achilles before gesturing for them all to step into the waiting chariot, charging up the beach as the endless ocean of people ebbed and flowed around them.

Inside the palace, the hectic energy did not cease. Food and wine was pressed into their hands, servants fighting for the chance to wait on him. He had hardly the chance to sip his goblet before it was taken from his hands and replaced with another, then another. He saw one servant girl sip from where his mouth had touched, closing her eyes in ecstasy. It was all so strange. At his height as a child he had never seen such things. 

He was led through the palace to the courtyard where his soldiers are waiting. 

_Waiting for me_ , he thought with a shock. These were not soldiers he would watch his father command, or Odysseus. They would follow his direction and his alone. The people outside, the citizens of Phthia, loved him but they were his father's people, they would never be his. These soldiers were his, they looked to him, they depended on him. He would be their commander, their king.

Determined to live up to the man they had built him to be in their minds, he stepped forward to greet them, shaking hands, touching shields. He would be what they believed him to be, he had to.

\--

As the days progressed, he had not a moment alone of peace. There were always maps, charts, supply lists, meetings of strategy, fittings for armor. He was needed by everyone, for everything. His father said nothing, never stepped forward to undermine his authority as the leader of the Myrmidons. For their respect he was grateful, for his own confidence he ached for guidance. He often deferred to Phoinix for assistance, but this bought him moments at best before someone else stepped forward to ask for more. 

He felt terribly for Patroclus, trapped by his necessary presence as thereupon but ignored by all around them. Achilles did his best to always ask his opinion, to try and make it known that Patroclus' opinion was to be regarded as his own, but they ignored him still. In the end, Achilles let it happen, noticing how often Patroclus found excuses to leave and be alone. For not the first time, Achilles wished he were the mortal and Patroclus the god-prince expected to lead an army. Late at night was often the only time they had to themselves, and he was so tired they could hardly do more than sleep.

One night, when he had been able to excuse himself earlier than usual, they lay together in their bed, Patroclus' face pressed to his throat, enticing lips against the beat of his pulse.

"How will you tell your father? About the prophecy?"

His heart ached at the mention. He had never withheld anything from his father, and now he would leave on a lie. His father deserved better, to be treated with deference and trusted, but Achilles could not bring himself to break his father's heart. Every time he considered it he saw the shine of his eyes, the pride in his smile. How could he take away such happiness? 

"I do not think I will."

Patroclus pressed closer to him, hands stroking over Achilles' sides. "Never?"

Achilles just shook his head, wishing they could talk about something else but his death. Lately it felt like it was always hanging between them.

"There is nothing he can do. It would only bring him grief."

"What about your mother? Won't she tell him?"

"No. It was one of the things I asked her to promise me, that last day on Scyros."

They had been laying just like this, Patroclus asleep in his arms, Achilles whispering to the waves and the wind coming through his window. When he asked for this thing, he had felt the warm caress of the wind over his arms, his ears filling with the song of deep waves. A yes, an of course. Once he left for Troy, she would never see his father again.

Patroclus lifted his head at this, half his hair sticking flat to his head. "What were the other things?"

Achilles swallowed. He remembered the answer to this question as well. "I asked her to protect you. After."

Patroclus' eyes were unwavering. "What did she say?"

He remembered the way the wind had died, the way the ocean seemed to recede from him. The cold, empty feeling of the complete silence and unending loneliness of that moment.

"She said no."

\--

Six weeks, that's how long he had to be at home, to be with his father, to learn what it meant to be a leader. 

His father had outfitted him with everything he could need and more. His armor was more beautiful, more terrifying than he could have imagined. He would be a blazing god on the battlefield. His father even gave him the horses he had received from the gods themselves for his wedding, horses that were larger and more powerful than any he had ever seen. The horses came with a young man, Automedon. He was strongly built and the only one he beside himself who could handle the horses. 

Last came a spear from Chiron, fashioned of the most beautiful ash he had seen, polished to gleaming. It slid through his hand, gliding like the gray river they had once bathed in. No matter how far he traveled he would always carry Pelion, Chiron, and their time in the rose quartz cave with him.

\--

Finally, it was time to leave for Troy. The ship was built and filled, the men were ready, and Achilles had no other reason to find to stay. 

Achilles knew the ship was sleek and beautiful, but he did not see the beauty. It was the ship that would carry him to his glory, to his death, to his uncertain future. The ship held too much to be beautiful. 

Every captain saluted him as he walked past, looking their best for their prince.

He walked onto the ship first, cloak billowing around him as the soft sea breeze guided him to his destiny. Behind him were Patroclus and Phoinix, and the cheers of the crowd who did not know they would never again see their prince. They called for death, for gold, for glory. He only hoped he could give it to them, in life or in death. 

He had hugged his father goodbye, kept in any tell tale tears. He would let them out tonight, head buried in Patroclus' chest, hidden from the men who would need a leader who did not shed tears. 

He waved his final goodbyes as the ship pulled away. Goodbye to his father, goodbye to his people, goodbye to his him, Pelion, and the life he could have lived. When it was not even a line on the horizon, he turned his back and walked to the prow of the ship, looking forward, to his destiny.


End file.
